


forever by your side

by marvelleous



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Academy Era, Angst, Dancing, Drinks, F/M, Missions, Origin Story, Patching Each Other Up, Platonic bed sharing, Pre-Series, Thirty years of slowburn coming right up, Undercover lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 02:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 111,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9797798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelleous/pseuds/marvelleous
Summary: “Phil Coulson. Thought you might like to know before we begin. I promise I won’t twist your arm… too hard,” he says with a smile, one which widens as she returns it.“Melinda May,” she responds, accepting his handshake. Her hand is small, her fingers slim, and her grip is unsurprisingly firm. “You wouldn’t dare. I’d whip your ass.”Phil Coulson and Melinda May. Their story, from the very first day.





	1. I

The streets are still littered with red, white and blue streamers the day Phillip J. Coulson is born, in a small town in Manitowoc, Wisconsin. His father is a history teacher, his mother a homemaker, and he is their first and only child. He weighs eight pounds and two ounces, measures twenty inches and lets out quiet cries of protest as he is dragged into the world by a none too gentle doctor.

Phil grows up an average boy.

He is of an average height and average weight, and attends the local elementary school with all the other regular boys and girls. In the afternoon when classes are over, he does all his chores and homework, before spending time with the neighbour’s children in the front yard. They are usually under the supervision of his mother, who often presents him with treats as rewards for good behaviour.

His favourite in the summer is her apple pie, with a golden and flakey crust, wrapped around a piping hot filling of caramelised apple slices. It's not too sweet and not too sour, and she always serves it with a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade; the lemons picked from a little tree in their back garden.

On weekends, he plays baseball in the little leagues, and doesn’t see much of his friends apart from that. His father keeps him busy in the garage, working on an old car, an activity that Phil doesn’t find particularly riveting. He knows better than to complain, and familiarises himself with the tools of the trade, getting comfortable in cramped spaces, constantly crawling beneath the vehicle to reach the places where his father wouldn’t fit.

In winter, his parents make hot chocolate from scratch, and the family of three stay warm huddled by the fireplace, trading stories about their day.

They’re an average family, with an average house and an average life.

But the first eight years of Phil’s life are safe, and happy.

 

* * *

 

He is nine years old when his father dies.

Phil doesn’t remember the day well; only a blur of tears and terror as his mother explains to him as simply as possible how it happened, and then the condolences from every person he encountered. He remembers everything moving around him, his whole world shifting and then crumbling apart as he watched, completely helpless.

While they were not by any means wealthy before his father’s passing, they had more than enough to live comfortably. But now his mother is left to raise him alone, strapped for cash and there are too little hours in a day, and days in a week, to earn the money needed for them to survive. He begins to do odd tasks around the neighbourhood, delivering papers, mowing lawns, walking dogs, trying to help her out, but even then, it’s not enough.

They sell off many possessions - Phil’s father had always been a sentimental man - and keep only the red Corvette that they had been restoring together before the man died. They had put her together, piece by piece until she ran again, but even so, she never seemed whole. It takes several years before he opens up the garage door once more to work on the car, to complete the task he and his father had started.

He names the car Lola.

Phil is smaller than the other boys in middle school, and enjoys studying, learning, more than anything. He has his own group of friends, kids that share the same interests - to have lunch with and work together in classes, but once school is over, he’s off to the local convenience store to help stock shelves in the back. His mother always insists that she doesn’t need his help, to save the little money he earns for himself, but he’s stubborn and makes sure she gets it one way or another.

He does keep a little for himself, hoarding pennies and dimes and the occasional dollar in a jar on his bedside table labelled _“Collectibles”._ The hope of maybe one day buying his own Captain America Trading Card lies in the spare change that he’s stashed there. He still has many of his childhood treasures saved - those that are priceless to him but worthless to others - a particularly round stone he’d found by the river while skipping rocks, a broken seashell from a vacation they took to the beach one year, a pen with no more ink that his father had once carried around with him. He has other things too of course - various well-read Captain America comic books, miniature figurines, random cogs and screws from old watches and clocks. His mother teases him about it, saying that his fascination for memorabilia came from his father. He hopes that he’s inherited his father’s other good traits too, so that he might make his mother proud when he grows into a man.

 

* * *

 

Phil kisses a girl for the first time in eighth grade. It’s just a peck on the lips shared with his date for a school dance, Michelle, who smiles prettily at him, blushing, before running off to tell her friends about it. He doesn’t remember the kiss itself, just the sound of her giggles, the butterflies in his stomach.

His first “serious” girlfriend is Lisa, who sits two rows in front of him in English during tenth grade. They lose their virginity to each other, and last nearly four months before she breaks up with him. There are no hard feelings really, even when he sees her flirting with a member of their school’s football team not three weeks later.

He understands it, he really does.

When he was younger, there had been a point where he wanted to be one of those guys - the same uniform, logos blazing, running out on the field as part of a team, all working towards achieving the same goal. But his father had taught him how to play, and he can’t bring himself to do it without the man’s guidance and support.

All he has left is the knowledge and wisdom his father had managed to impart on him in the nine years they were fortunate enough to spend together, and he clings on to it, unwilling to let it go.

By the time turns seventeen, Phil has his life planned out ahead of him. He’ll graduate from high school, go to college, study history. He’ll get a job, build a life for himself.

His mother always did say he was a dreamer.

And he did dream - of the ideal life. A house that felt just as warm as his childhood home, Lola parked in the garage, a sensible distance away from the minivan in the front driveway. He imagines the woman he will end up spending his life with; he wants the life that his parents shared together - however short it had been. He wants to know the moment he meets the one for him, to win her over and build a future together.

He knows that he wants children, _plural._ Growing up as an only child had its positives, he was the centre of attention, there was never anyone to fight with. But he had been lonely, and he doesn’t want that for his future kids. He knows that he’ll love them.

So he dreams, imagines, and plans.

 

* * *

 

The thing about life is that it doesn’t care about your plans. It throws curveballs at you and expects you to dodge them; and whatever outcome occurs if you fail, is on you.

Phil goes off to college at age eighteen. He’s made his plans, and he’s following them. It’s supposed to be the beginning of his new life, his adult life.

It’s the year everything begins.

It’s also the year his mother dies.

He skips classes for a week, holed up his dorm room before he pulls himself together and gets on with life. It isn’t going to sit around and wait for him. His parents had already given him everything he needed to survive in the world, and he wasn’t going to let them down by falling apart.

He doesn’t have anyone on his team anymore, no one to truly support him, and so he must adapt to surviving on his own.

In the beginning, it isn’t easy, but he throws himself into his school work, studying harder than he ever has before. It’s history, it’s something he enjoys, something he loves, something he’s loved his entire life. The more he learns, the more he wants to learn; hours upon hours spent at the library, combing through book after book.

He’s intelligent. He’s observant.

He notices things. Inconsistencies. Half-truths. Complete lies.

Where there are secrets there must be people keeping them, and so he digs further.

Notices more.

Until one day he notices the man with eye patch watching him.

 

* * *

 

He is just shy of nineteen years old when Nick Fury recruits him for an organisation the man calls S.H.I.E.L.D. It’s a peace keeping agency headed by Peggy Carter herself; a woman who had been integral to the success of missions carried out by Captain America and his allies during the second world war. During the war against Hydra.

Fury is clear that joining means dedicating himself completely to the cause; to fight for the greater good, to protect the world, to _be the shield_. Phil has nothing left to lose the day he packs his bags and leaves his life behind for good, following Nicholas Fury into the unknown.

Fury puts him through his paces, makes sure he knows what he’s getting himself into. There’s so much to learn, so much to study, and he thrives off of it. It’s the first time he’s truly found purpose since he lost his mother, and he thinks both she and his father would be proud of the man he is trying to become.

So he trains hard for the next three years, absorbing all the knowledge he can, learning all the skills. He learns to fight, with his hands, with his body, strengthening every muscle that he can.  When Fury deems him competent, he acquaints himself with the weapons of the trade - knives, guns, rifles. Fury thinks he’ll make a good field agent once he goes through proper training at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy.

He looks forward to the experience.

 

* * *

 

He’s in the last weeks of his first year at the S.H.I.E.L.D. Communications Academy when all potential field agents have to begin training with the cadets from Operations. Phil is both nervous and excited at the prospect - Communications is all about liaising and planning missions, but those at the Operations Academy are training to be specialists. The kind of secret agents authors write novels about, that movies were made about. Those who were constantly kicking ass in the field; he would be the man in the shadows, watching their every move, controlling them from afar.

There very much appears to be a rivalry between the different S.H.I.E.L.D. Academies, that much he can tell strolling into Operations with his fellow trainees. The cadets here appear to have more brawn than brains, all tall, strong, muscled - could probably kill you with twelve different methods in three seconds flat.

Phil does not particularly relish the thought of being pummeled to pieces.

They are set to train with the first year cadets, and as he stands across the room, just observing them, his eyes land on one in particular.

It’s her gaze that catches his attention first; she’s just standing silently amongst the other cadets, quiet, unassuming, but there’s something about the way she looks at him that has him intrigued. The second thing he notices is how small she is, practically dwarfed by her peers. There are very few female cadets, and even then, they rarely came in such small packages. She suddenly smirks, and he’s ashamed to admit that it takes him one moment too long to realise the change in her facial expression is because she’s caught him staring.

Their moment is broken when one of the senior agents in charge calls for their attention. Phil is well aware that today is just an introductory session, to get them used to interacting with those who have different training. They all stand and watch as two of the third year Operations cadets step up and take their opening stances, pausing for a moment before they attack.

Phil is mesmerised, and looks on with rapt attention as they fight, dodging one another’s moves without a pause, as if without a second thought. He almost cannot keep up, and misses the finishing blow, because in the blink of an eye the fight is over, one cadet pinned to the ground by the other, and there are a couple of cheers from the first years, supporting their upperclassmen.

A loud cough from another of their supervising agents brings the room to a silence once more, and they wait with bated breaths for what is to come next.

“May, you’re up first. Who wants to give it a go?”

Phil holds back a smile as the cadet he’d made eye contact with earlier steps up to the mats, straightening her back as she stands at attention. He studies her a little more closely now - it’s what he’s trained to do. Her eyes are brown, full of light - he feels like she knows so much more than she’ll ever let on, more than she’ll ever say out loud. Her hair is dark too, parted in the middle and pulled tightly into two braids which lay over her shoulders, hanging to almost mid-waist length.

She looks adorable.

And deadly.

Clearly, no one else sees it, because he can hear the snickers from his fellow trainees, the vulgar things they’re whispering under their breath, the way her expression hardens when she hears it too.

Without a second thought, he steps forward, and the laughter increases tri fold, until one of the instructors silences them by clearing his throat, and gestures for Phil to go ahead.

He keeps a steady stride as he approaches her, _May._ When they meet in the middle, he extends a hand out to her, and barely manages to suppress a snort when she briefly glances down, before looking back up at his face.

“Phil Coulson. Thought you might like to know before we begin. I promise I won’t twist your arm… too hard,” he says with a smile, one which widens as she returns it.

“Melinda May,” she responds, accepting his handshake. Her hand is small, her fingers slim, and her grip is unsurprisingly firm. “You wouldn’t dare. I’d whip your ass.”

He can’t help but raise his eyebrows at her vulgarity, and she tilts her head to the side and nods up at him. She extracts her hand from his, and they take two steps back, pausing for just a moment, before he surges forward towards her.

She’s fast, dodging his attacks, and he has just enough speed to avoid her blows. He throws a punch at her, but she turns, blocking it, whipping her head around as she does so and her braids slap him across the face, stunning him for a split second. She lunges at him, and anticipating a kick to the chest, he ducks, hoping her leg will just fly over his head. What he doesn’t expect is for her to leap above him and knock him down onto the mats, flipping them so she’s above him, pressing his head down against the ground as she lowers her entire body weight onto his back. She’s light, doesn’t weigh much, but she’s strong enough to hold him down for the five seconds required to end the match.

He can hear the whistles and cheers around the room, and ignores them as she climbs off him and offers him a hand, pulling him back to his feet. She nods at him again, smirking, before returning to her side of the room. As he does the same, he raises a hand to where he’d been savagely whipped by her hair, knowing that it probably left a mark, and smiles to himself.

 

* * *

 

The next time he and Melinda May have a chance to speak alone is during his second year at Communications. He’s taken to jogging in the mornings to build his stamina, to clear his head before training - but this morning, he’s up before the sun is, unable to go back to sleep, too many thoughts, too many worries. He changes and sets out for his usual path, feeling the cold wind chilling his skin, listening to the sounds of nature. The sky is only just beginning to lighten, the birds are calling, and he can hear the twigs and leaves crunch beneath each footfall… footfalls?

He almost skids to stop, quickly turning, and he hadn’t been hearing things, because there’s a figure coming up behind him, slowing down as they spot him standing there.

“Coulson?”

He frowns, blinks and does a double take. It’s been two weeks since he last saw her during a training session. They’d been sparring with different partners, but had made eye contact as they often did at least once when they were around one another. She had brushed one of her signature braids over her shoulder as she turned to offer him a smirk, and he had smiled back.

He almost doesn’t recognise her now. Her hair has been cropped to her shoulders, and she has... bangs? He’s not completely sure what the correct terminology is, but he also knows that he should probably make a polite comment about her new haircut.

“May, wow. Nice um, I like your new hair,” he finally manages to get out, and she just laughs at him, shaking her head as she does.

“Wanted a change. Also people kept complaining about being hit in the face. No idea what they meant by that,” she responds, moving to stand beside him. She looks different like this, but he thinks he could probably get used to it. He hadn’t really minded being slapped in the face by one of her braids, but maybe that was just him.

“Yeah, couldn’t possibly know what they meant by that,” he snorts, making a show of rubbing at the side of his face, and she scoffs right back at him, clapping him hard on the shoulder before taking off.

“Come on Coulson.”

He just stands there for a moment, laughing as he watches her run off, shaking his head before chasing after her.

“I’ll catch up.”

They spar a few times after that, during their second and third years at the Academy. She’s not a friend, but he considers her an acquaintance, an ally in the cause that they support. She’s quiet, only talks when she really wants to, and has very few friends over in operations. Sometimes he fears he may be analysing her too much, but argues that it is just the future field agent in him taking over.

 

* * *

 

He’s trained to be observant.

She smiles, a lot, when she thinks others aren’t watching, and has a great sense of humour. Or at least that’s how he feels until he falls prey to one of her particularly vicious pranks at the beginning of their third year.

He doesn’t know how she does it, but after he wakes up one perfectly normal morning and carries out his routine, he returns to the Communications dorms and finds that all of his Captain America boxers have been strung up across the building. There’s a crowd of his fellow trainees gathered around laughing hysterically; no one could have spent a day around him without learning he was a huge fan of Steve Rogers, and he knows that they’re all making fun of him.

He’s beyond mortified, and doesn’t even know how to begin getting them down - he can’t imagine how someone even got them up there, until he spots a familiar face at the edge of the crowd, smirking, and he groans internally.

How had she even gotten into his room? What else had she taken? Worse, what other secrets of his had she managed to uncover?

He can only give her a forced smile as he pushes past the hoard of people, keeping his eyes trained on the ground, heading into the building, the sound of laughter fading as the door slams shut behind him.

His boxers have vanished by the next morning, and he doesn’t see them again for a week, until one evening when he returns to his room after a particularly straining day, and finds that they’ve been laundered and folded, sitting in neat piles on his bed.

As he goes to return them to the correct drawers, he finds something lying on top.

Frowning, he picks it up, inspecting it and almost dropping it when he realises what it is.

A Captain America Trading Card.

He’s always wanted one - they’re rare, some of them almost impossible to find. And even if he could find them, it wasn’t as if a secret agent in training could afford something like that. He turns it in his hand, and can’t help his wide grin as he runs his finger over the black marker lettering.

_Peggy Carter._

If this is the kind of apology gift he receives after a little suffering on his behalf, he might just let Melinda May prank him more often.

 

* * *

 

As the months go by, their training increases, and Phil finds himself missing May’s company. He understands her humour better now, and they’ve shared words during and after sparring sessions together. Still he feels like he knows next to nothing about her; and that anything he did know came from his observations. He expects he’ll see her next in another month, either on the mats if they pair up, or at the range. She’s a great shot, but he doesn’t do too badly himself. The last place he expects to see her is at a Communications run dance elective to prepare field agents for undercover missions.

“May.”

“Coulson.”

Phil watches her as she surveys the room with a disinterested look, before walking up next to him, and fixing him with a hesitant smile.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he tells her, breaking the ice, smirking as she smiles.

“I counted on you being here,” she says, grin widening.

The other cadets begin picking partners, and he scans the room briefly, before turning back to her and offering her an arm.

“Shall we?”

She snorts at him, rolling her eyes, and hooks her arm through his.

“Suppose I could do worse.”

Dancing, Phil likes it. He thinks that it is it’s own art form, the way two people move together, their steps mirroring one another's. It’s almost romantic.

“Ugh.”

Clearly, May does not agree with him. It’s not even that she’s bad at it; in fact, he thinks they make a pretty good match; she fits well into his arms, and they’re not stepping on each other’s toes. She mumbles something about it being a waste of time, and he supposes with all the skills she already has mastery over, this one really is useless.

She lasts four more lessons, and while he’s disappointed, he’s really not surprised when she disappears after two weeks.

 

* * *

 

He lets out a loud groan as she pins him to the mats for the fourth time that day; this time knocking him flat on his back, and keeping him there with a foot on his chest.

“I don’t think I can do this,” he pants as she lets him up, before heading over to the edge of the room and tossing him a water bottle. He catches it in one hand above his head, uncapping the bottle and taking a couple of deep gulps, almost sighing in relief at the cool water running down his throat. He wishes he had a bucket of it to dump over his head.

“Stop dropping your left side. You’re leaving too much of an opening for your opponent.”

“Not everyone is born with your skills May.”

She smiles at him, shaking her head, and he likes this. Whatever _this_ is. The banter, the sparring, having someone to talk to? He has pals back in communications; he’s also got Garrett, but Garrett’s an ass and Melinda is just different. Makes him feel comfortable in a way that no one else can.

“You’ll be fine Coulson. If Blake managed to pass his field exam, you’ll ace it.”

She sits down on the mats beside him, and bumps her shoulder against his. He knows it’s her way of comforting him, and just the thought of that makes him feel better; lifts a little of the weight off his chest.

“Easy for you to say.”

She’s already finished her exams, passed with flying colours he expects. Probably already found out where she was being assigned after graduation. He feels a small pang of sadness when he realises that their days here are numbered.

“I’ll miss it you know. The Academy. It’s gonna be a strange adjustment,” she admits with a shrug, tilting her head to the side and staring at him. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, which reaches nearly half way down her back now. It’s long again, nearly as long as it had been the day she whipped him in the face. He wonders if that much time has really passed, but then realises it’s been three years since he met her, and four years at the academy. He’s sentimental, likes holding on to the past, but that’s not a personality that suits someone in their profession. They need to learn to let things go.

“Nostalgia’s fine. But then life happens,” he tells her, and they share a moment of silence before she pushes herself back up and waves him towards her.

“Come on, Coulson. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

 

* * *

 

He’s not the only one without family at graduation. Many of the cadets have hidden the secret of their true profession from their family members; a spies life was designed for those who could survive alone.

Someone like him.

With nothing holding him back, no one to miss him should the worst occur.

Many of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most legendary agents attend the ceremony - Fury claps him on the back, tells him he’s proud of him, and he actually has to conceal his emotions when he is introduced to _the_ Peggy Carter, as one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s best and brightest.

He finds himself standing there in awe, just listening to the conversation between the two, until someone draws his attention by tapping on his shoulder. He turns to see May standing there with a bright smile, face framed by waves today. She had made an effort for the ceremony, knowing Peggy would be in attendance, and she was...

She was beautiful.

That one thought clouds his judgement, pushing aside his doubts about forming connections with other people. Who knows where they’ll be off to tomorrow, and the day after that. Maybe they could have just one night. Maybe they could have more. He didn’t know.

“When this is over, do you want to grab a drink?” he asks, waving his arm to gesture around at the crowds of people scattered around the lawn.

She smiles at him, and it warms his heart.

“Sorry Coulson. I’m flying out with Peggy tonight,” she says, nodding towards where Fury and Peggy are still engaged in a discussion.

He tries not to let his disappointment show, shrugging. He’s taken his shot, missed. Time to move on.

But then she reaches out a hand and pats him on the arm, and for a reason he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to explain, the fact that she has a smile on her face prevents him from feeling completely unhappy.

“Next time we’re in the same city, I’ll take you up on that offer, Agent Coulson.”

“It’s a deal, then, Agent May.”

It’s one that he looks forward to keeping.


	2. II

The lives of spies are nothing like those that one might see in fiction. Yes, there is danger, action, mystery, betrayal and drama. There’s guns, bombs and explosions, missions and undercover. But there’s also a trail of death and destruction, the choice to fight for what you believe to be right, the people you save, the people you lose.

The people you leave behind.

The people you hold on to.

Even from a young age, Melinda Qiaolian May knows this better than anyone else.

Her father is a civilian. William May. At first glance, there is absolutely nothing particularly noticeable about the man. Taking a second glance does little to change anyone’s opinion. He immigrated to the United States from China as a boy, and went on to get a college education; a stable job. He was a man that watered his own plants, chatted with the neighbours over the fence, well liked by those that knew him. He liked to golf in the early mornings, play chess in the afternoon, enjoy the peace and calm.

A simple man.

A simple life.

Her mother is a government operative for an intelligence agency. Lian May. She too is also an immigrant of China, but that is the sole thing the two have in common. She flies around the world stealing secrets, keeping peace, defeating the enemy. Trained in four different varieties of martial arts, a weapons expert, a list of the lives of the people she has eliminated in the past permanently ingrained into her mind, there is no place she truly calls home.

She is a spy.

Spies do not lead simple lives.

 

* * *

 

They meet in the autumn of 1958.

Their story starts off like any other - boy meets girl, girl meets boy. William has a stall at the local farmer’s market on Sundays, selling preserved fruit and homemade jams, all stored in little glass jars, plaid fabric tied over the top with twine. He chats with customers, listening to their stories, sharing his own - until one day, a new and unfamiliar face shows up.

She’s mysterious, speaks English with an accent, like him, and doesn’t talk much, even when prompted. At first, the look she regales him with when he tries a joke is enough to convince him that his neighbours will soon be calling the authorities to report that he has gone missing, because he’s pretty sure she has the capability of ending his life with her pinkie. She doesn’t even crack a smile when he attempts another, and by the time the sale is done, she’s taking her change and vanishing into the crowd, gone in the blink of an eye.

He doesn’t expect to see her again.

But then she comes back the next week.

And the week after that.

He tells her another joke.

She still doesn’t smile, but this time, she doesn’t frown either.

 

* * *

 

Melinda is born in November of 1965, and it is the best day of both her parents lives.

Her father is elated.

He’d always wanted a family, and in his eyes, his little girl is perfect. She’s red and wrinkly and doesn’t cry, just screws up her face occasionally in displeasure before squirming in his arms. Only hours old and she already reminds him so much of her mother; her eyes are brown when she opens them to look out into the world, and she can’t have seen all that much, but the expression on her face seems to be telling him that she knows all the secrets of the universe.

Her mother is relieved.

Sharing her life with a civilian man was not on the list of things she had sought to eventually accomplish one day, but it wasn’t something she could have fought, could have pushed away. She had known children would be a possibility after they had married, even with her job, the dangers she faced on a day to day basis. Part of her feared bringing a child into a world with so many unknown terrors; the other part knew that she was fighting to make it better.

She hadn’t found out about the baby she was carrying until she almost lost it, and the next seven months had been filled with constant stress and worry, that something was wrong with it.

And that if there was, it was her fault.

So when baby is presented to her, wrapped up in a blanket, sleeping peacefully, she feels nothing but relief. That she’s healthy, all in one piece. Dark hair and brown eyes, a little nose, a little smile.

The hospital staff comment that she’s the quietest, most gentle baby they’ve ever seen, but for some reason the other infants in the nursery start crying when she’s brought in.

Her father looks on in confusion while her mother smiles proudly.

They name her Melinda, and vow to protect her for as long as they are able.

 

* * *

 

Having a child doesn’t make too drastic a change to Lian May’s lifestyle. She still touches down in four continents within a week long period, spending more time in the air than on solid ground. She trains and fights with her team and they travel the world saving the lives of some, and ending the lives of others. Her days are filled with breaking codes and cracking safes and stealing secrets, all in the name of protection, all for the greater good.

But she takes more time away now, mostly evenings and weekends, but whenever she can. To go home, to see her husband, to see their daughter.

Sometimes she spends no more than thirty minutes by Melinda’s crib, just holding her, soothing her silent tears, singing her back to sleep. The weight of her child in her arms feels right, feels natural, and she always brushes a kiss to her little forehead or cheek, before setting her back down beneath her blankets and taking off once more.

At work, the mission comes first. Crossing off the mark, keeping the secrets.

At home, she’s a mother, and her family is all that matters.

 

* * *

 

Growing up, Melinda was mostly a Daddy’s girl.

Her mother travelled around too often for them to follow her as she flew from city to city, so the family permanently resided in Pennsylvania, close enough to her place of work so she could visit often, but far away enough for them to make a run for it if things ever went south.

Her father didn’t work in the first five years of her life, staying home to take care of her while her mother was off fighting monsters, slaying dragons. He’d managed to sell that story to her until she started elementary school, and came home with a book she’d found on dragons, proceeding to let him know that either he had been lying to her, or Mommy had been lying to him their entire marriage.

They’d had to tell her the truth then, but not before making her promise not to speak about it to anybody, not her friends at school, not her teachers, and definitely not the neighbours who were ever curious about the May family, the mysterious mother who was never around, the stay at home father and the strange little girl who stared at them blankly when they said hello, and rarely ever played in the yard like the other kids.

For people who wanted to stay hidden in plain sight, they sure were the talk of the town.

 

* * *

 

Melinda falls in love for the first time in her life at age seven.

Her parents take her for a vacation in New York City - her mother takes the time off work to make it happen, and she’s never been happier. They visit all the tourist attractions, see all the sights, and on Christmas Day, the three of them take to the ice at Rockefeller Centre, the lights of the Christmas tree dazzling, but not outshining the smile Melinda has on her face as she moves around the rink.

The amount of time she spends on her butt versus actually upright in the skates is debatable, but she loves all of it, and spends the next month begging her parents for skating lessons. Her father wants to cave and let her do it, even promises to change his work schedule to accommodate her if needed, but her mother tells her to prove to them how much she really wants it before she’ll agree.

And want it she does.

She works tirelessly for almost four months while her mother is off on an undercover operation somewhere “ _classified”_ , collecting newspaper clippings, reading books at the local library, all in the name of research. She makes her father take her around to all the local rinks, and picks up flyers, records information, asking all the correct questions and documenting the answers in a little journal. And in the end, she compiles it all into a neat presentation, along with a chart of the best place to take her lessons, the best times to do so without interfering with her parent’s schedules, and hands them to her mother, along with her second grade report card, which displayed only A’s.

Her mother reads through the entire thing, completely expressionless, before her parents share a long and silent conversation, consisting of only both their glares, and her sitting quietly on the floor in front of them, thumbing the bent corners of the book containing all her hard work, just waiting for their decision.

It _feels_ like forever, but she’s been counting the seconds in her head, and it’s really only been three minutes and forty-six seconds before her mother sighs with a reluctant smile and nods. She runs into their arms, wrapping her arms around her mother’s neck, not a rare, but somewhat uncommon display of affection between the two.

She doesn’t catch the way her father rolls his eyes at her mother.

She doesn’t see the wide smile her mother offers in return.

 

* * *

 

Melinda is good at almost everything she does, and figure skating is no exception.

She trains diligently, waking up earlier in the mornings to practice, losing her free time on weekends in order to have more hours on the ice. She lands her first double jump at age nine, her double axel at eleven. Her coaches all commend her incredible progress, sing praises about her excellent technique and urge her father to put her in competitions.

She’s initially a little reluctant, but one of her coaches tells her that if she did enter competitions, she could one day be like Dorothy Hamill, and that is all it takes to convince her.  

Her mother begins dragging her out of bed long before sunrise whenever she’s home, the pair doing Tai Chi together to help strengthen her core, keep her relaxed. Her father can only watch with a smile as she runs through these routines alone in her bedroom whenever her mother is out of town.

When she’s on the ice, all her worries and problems are gone. She isn’t thinking about how there might come a day where her mother doesn’t return home to them, nor about how she has noticed her parents have grown increasingly colder to one another, to a point where the atmosphere at the dinner table is colder than when she’s at the rink. She lets her coach put her into a fancy costume and enter her in competitions, and she stops being herself, putting on the persona of someone else.

She’s good at pretending.

Good at smiling to the judges, going about her routines with energy, attacking her jumps and spins like they are hurdles to be conquered.

She knows that she’s fooled everyone when she is the one standing at the top of the podium at the end of the day, medal hanging around her neck, trophy in her hands, a grin plastered on her face as her father tries to work his way around his giant camera.

The day of her last competition ever coincides with the news of her parents’ impending divorce.

 

* * *

 

She’s not surprised.

They’ve been having problems for the past two years, and while her mother is a super spy, her father is not, and she can tell that he is unhappy. Her parents splitting up means moving to Arizona with her father - there will be no custody battle - her mother’s job is too important to her, too important to the safety of their country, of the world, to give up.

Her father has never been a fan of Pennsylvania, and she doesn’t make a comment when he tells her they’ll be relocating. She has no real attachments to the home she grew up in, only the two people who raised her, and her mother promises to visit as often as she can.

It’s not as often as either of them will like.

But it’s all they have.

She starts martial arts classes once they are settled in Arizona, and even manages to impress her mother the next time she is in town. Melinda discovers that she likes having something to attack, to let her feelings out, hitting the punching bags until her knuckles are bruised, letting them heal for a few days before bruising them again.

She tries all sorts of fighting styles, judo, karate, taekwondo, paying close attention to the techniques, the details, the differences between them. Fitting in isn't easy, but she works hard at school, even harder at the gym, and the day she manages to pin one of her instructors to the mats, she wonders what it might be like to do what her mother does, travelling around the world and fighting evil.

 

* * *

 

At sixteen, she moves back to Pennsylvania. It is initially supposed to be a temporary stay, after her mother is injured in the field, but as she settles back into her routine there, she doesn’t want to go back to Arizona. She loves her father, and he does so much for her, but she’s old enough now to know what she wants, and what she wants is to try her hand at the things her mother is an expert it.

She takes to spying on her neighbours, the gossipy housewives from several years back still watching her warily as she jogs through the streets in the morning. She sneaks around their homes, goes through their trash, pilfers their mail, just to prove that she can, ignoring the legality of her actions.

She expects her mother to catch her - is waiting for the moment really. She’ll have to sit through the lectures about the stupidity of what she is doing, listen as her mother questions her sanity, brings up arguments from years ago and yell at her about mistakes she made when she was younger. There will be three days of stony silence and then she’ll be forgiven. And hopefully it will convince her mother that she’s seriously interested in her line of work, that she is willing to commit to it.

When her mother doesn’t say anything - even after three weeks, she begins to grow suspicious, until she comes home from school one afternoon and finds a well-dressed woman lounging in their sitting room, drinking a cup of tea. She just observes her silently - taking in the well-cut dress suit, the nonchalant expression and relaxed stance, before mentally shrugging to herself and heading for the stairs to ditch her belongings in her bedroom.

“You remind me of your mother,” a voice calls out before she can take another step. _British_. Odd but not uncommon. She had never seen anyone else visit, but her mother must have friends somewhere.

“I tried to recruit her once, quite some time before you were born actually.”

This piques her interest, and she drops her bag by the stairs instead - easy access incase she needs to flee, and walks back down the hall until she can see the woman again. She’s older, in her late fifties or early sixties, but still so poised, so elegant. Melinda can picture her as some sort of spy - she can also see her as an aristocrat, at a fancy afternoon tea.

The woman smiles, setting down her tea and rising, hands slowly smoothing down her skirt, and Melinda barely has a moment to blink before a knife is being hurled towards her. She almost drops to the ground to avoid being hit, but she’s not one to run from a fight, and she throws herself backwards instead, flipping backwards in the air and catching the dagger by it’s handle. She tests the weight in her hands, spinning it with her fingers - the blade is sharp, and the woman’s aim had been flawless - had she reacted a second too slowly she’d have a knife embedded in her right shoulder, just far enough to miss a major artery.

The woman moves towards her, one hand held out, and Melinda is actually stunned about how to react, until she snatches the knife out of her grip and slips it back into her garter, tugging her skirts neatly back down, before again extending her hand. Melinda eyes it warily before accepting the handshake.

“Peggy Carter. Lovely to meet you. Now that all that is out of the way, why don’t you tell me what you’ve heard about the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division?”

 

* * *

 

When Phil had envisioned working for a top secret government intelligence organisation as a field agent, he’d pictured actually, well, going out into the field, seeing a little action. Instead, he finds himself at a base in a “classified” location doing the same things they did back at the Academy. And when he does get sent out as part of a team, he is left with the worse jobs possible.

He’s only a Level One agent of course, and it’s like high school all over again with the way Level Twos and Threes hog all the good assignments, while they’re left as the cleanup crew.

He’s disposed of no less than two dozen dead bodies in the past few months, cleared up the rubble from four explosions and bagged evidence according to the instructions of annoying Level Two agents from Sci-Tech, who complain about absolutely everything. He’s even had to put on one of their biohazard suits and wade through “potentially” radioactive garbage, all because they aren’t technically cleared for field work and use that as an excuse to not take a swim in toxic waste.

He hasn’t even had a chance to use his gun. Not that it’s necessarily a bad thing he hasn’t shot anyone yet. But he’s only flashed his badge twice. Twice.

It’s really quite disappointing.

But he toughens up and strives through it - at least he’s not dead yet.

 

* * *

 

Six months out of the Academy, Fury shows up and rescues him from the Hell Hole. It’s his personal nickname for the piss poor excuse of base he’s been practically living at, and takes him away to a base in New York City where he starts doing actual meaningful work. He guesses someone has to do the nitty gritty work, and he’s just glad it’s not him anymore.

For the next three months, he gets to plan missions, organise extraction teams, quarterback things from behind cover. Out in the field, he’s given opportunities to point his gun and show his badge and come up with excuses to baffle the local authorities. He’s not in charge or making the hard calls - there are senior agents responsible for that, but he finally feels like part of something important, like he’s making a difference.

Not that clearing away dead bodies before they piled up and freaked out the general public wasn’t playing a vital part in keeping S.H.I.E.L.D. under the radar.

He’s still only a Level One Agent - doesn’t get to pick his own missions, but when one with a familiar specialist listed lands on the desk of the agent who sits behind him, he offers to do the guy’s paperwork for the next two weeks just to be assigned to the case.

It’s been nine months since graduation, and Melinda May still owes him that drink.

 

* * *

 

Phil sees her again for the first time before the mission briefing on the thirty-third floor at the Triskelion. It’s an amazing structure - he’d spent nearly ten minutes standing around in the foyer just stunned by the design.

He’s not ashamed to admit it.

There are agents moving all around him, but he doesn’t take too much notice of them, too busy examining the Wall of Valour. There are so many names engraved there  when someone claps a hand on his shoulder and he nearly leaps a foot in the air, clapping a hand over his mouth to stop the scream from escaping his lips. He whips around, other hand on his chest, ready to berate whoever had tried to scare him half to death, when he comes face to face with Melinda May.

She’s standing there with a cheeky smile, arms pulled across her chest and he sighs, shaking his head at her antics. It’s been nearly a year, and she really hasn’t changed one bit. Her hair has been pulled up into a high ponytail, but he can tell that it’s been trimmed - it’s shorter than he remembers. She’s dressed in the standard S.H.I.E.L.D. tactical gear, he assumes she’s just come from a training session of some sort, all dark colours and combat boots and she looks good.

“Nice suit.”

She’s smirking now, looking him up and down and he scoffs, following close behind her as she leads them up to the higher levels. The other agents riding in the elevator with them mostly ignore the look on his face as he looks out over the Potomac with glee, trying to drink in the scenery, absorb it all into his memory. He’s so distracted May has to actually grab him by the elbow and pull him away from the view when they reach the correct floor.

“Come on Coulson, you can ride the elevator again after the briefing.”

He tries to deny that the thought of doing so actually excites him, but he’s pretty sure she’s figured it out from his expression. He’s not really ashamed - not everyone had the opportunity like her to work around here, especially not fresh out of the Academy. But May had always been incredible - having a famous spy for a mother and the founder of their very organisation as her supervising officer had some people screaming nepotism - but for anyone who knew her personally, and he liked to think that he did, she was nothing short of brilliant and didn’t need connections to make her way in the world.

He’s looking forward to working together again - they had made a pretty good team back at the Academy.

 

* * *

 

They’re sent on a retrieval operation in Sausalito, and Melinda meets Lola for the first time as they’re boarding the jet to take them there, and the car is sitting right in the middle of the plane. She wonders how he swung it - keeping his own vehicle for use on missions. She’s probably driven around in seven different cars since she reached D.C., and she knows that she’s tested at least three different aircrafts and four bikes. They’re all great in the moment, but none can replicate the feeling of the one before it and she’s learned to adapt to the constant change.

But this car, she has to admit is pretty cool.

She had heard tales of Coulson’s precious corvette, mostly from him - she could tell that the car meant a lot to him, so she avoids just leaping over the car door into the passenger’s seat, lounging back and resting her legs on the dashboard. There is a time and place for making fun of him, and this isn’t one. She admires the shiny red paint and the silver rims, and he grins at her, unable to contain his excitement.

She hopes he can keep a straight face while they’re undercover.

She is not looking forward to having the mission compromised, or having to resort to gassing the entire room including him to she can make an escape with the item they need to “retrieve” and having to drag his dead weight along with her. Either that or she’ll have to knock out the target and possibly get them all shot at, or just ditch Coulson and get the item to safety.

It would be easier if she could make the decision herself, instead of waiting for their commander to tell her what to do should the situation call for it. One wrong move and they could fail, lose the item, lose a team member.

She doesn’t know him well enough to truly mourn, but she’ll probably be upset if he gets himself killed and she isn’t there to stop it.

 

* * *

 

They get changed as soon after they touch down in California, and when Phil makes his way back to the main room of their safe house, he is taken aback at May’s undercover wear. She’s sitting on the edge of the table, legs crossed, reading through the mission brief again and he honestly never thought a day would come where he would see Melinda May dressed like this. She’s in a floral print dress, hair curled and swept to one side and a large cream coloured wide brim hat is atop her head, drooping on either side.

She looks cute.

And ridiculous.

Yet moments later when she looks up at him, she’s the one who snorts at his sensible dress shirt and slacks.

“Going for the bad boy look Coulson?” she asks him, tugging at his rolled up shirt sleeves, and he can only grumble under his breath about how he regrets thinking this would be fun. He had conveniently forgotten how much she appeared to enjoy making fun of him.

Still, he forces a fake smile, which she returns, and they stare at one another for several moments before she bursts into laughter and shakes her head, the hat swaying as she does. He offers her his arm, like any gentleman would, and considers it a success when she only rolls her eyes at him once all the way from the safe house to the coffee shop where they would be waiting for their mark.

He’s impressed.

It had been a twenty minute drive.

 

* * *

 

They sit across from one another at a corner table, and he orders them two coffees while she takes advantage of the waiter’s cover to scan the shop. She tilts her head to the left to signal that their mark has yet to arrive and he taps his fingers against the table silently, just once, to acknowledge that he’s received her message.

He begins a casual conversation once their drinks arrive, prattling on about nonsensical things from his childhood to fill the void as he stirs in his sugars and cream. It would be too suspicious if they didn’t speak at all - silence was acceptable if you were alone, but with two of them, it would only draw attention. So he talks and she listens, occasionally picking up her silver spoon to stir the dark liquid in her cup, never raising it to her lips, never taking a sip.

It takes him an hour to notice.

Some spy he is.

“You hate coffee, don’t you?” he asks her, voice lowering a little.

The look she gives him says it all.

Still, he kind of wants the confirmation. He stares at her for a moment to make sure he has her attention, before blinking once, and then she’s leaning over, both her hair and the ridiculous hat giving them some cover from the rest of the patrons.

“Come on, I’ve already told you so much about me. How about one little detail?”

She’s narrowing her eyes at him now, and he’s really glad that he’d forced her to lean over, because had anyone else observed her expression, they would surely be convinced that he was going to be murdered very soon.

“Fine. I hate coffee,” she says, glare intensifying and he’s so dead when this mission is over. She’s going to kill him and then call a Level One field agent to come and dispose of his body - he’ll probably end up in that toxic wasteland mixed with radioactive garbage.

Still, he can’t help but grin as she slowly draws away, sitting properly back into her chair, considering his newfound knowledge a huge accomplishment.

It’s certainly something he will remember for a long time to come.

 

* * *

 

Three hours in and he’s honestly starting to get bored. He’s already spilled his deepest, darkest secrets to May, who has still yet to offer up anything in return, and for a normally talkative person, he’s almost out of things to say. He’s on his third cup of coffee, and May is actually drinking the tea he’d asked the waiter to bring over, and not that this _date_ isn’t fantastic, but how can anyone just sit for hours pretending to be another person, while doing absolutely nothing.

He wishes for a little action.

And five minutes later, wants to take back exactly what he wished for.

May spots their mark before the commander even has the time to alert them to the former mobster’s presence, and they’re both on high alert as the man sits down on the other side of the coffee shop.

“The exchange is going down soon. Keep your eyes peeled.”

May keeps her eyes on the front door to monitor any new guests, and he scans the room, checking for any signs of suspicious activity. The briefcase is by their mark’s side, until he turns his head, blinks and then it’s gone. He taps his fingers against his temples twice and May shakes her head - no one had entered within the last couple minutes.

It dawns on them at the same time; he can see her eyes widening just as the thoughts appear in his mind.

The waiter.

“I think it might be time to go,” he says, keeping eye contact with May as she monitors the waiter she’s deemed most suspicious, both waiting for further instructions from their commander.

“Protect the briefcase at all costs.”

This is exactly what she had been worried about. They stand, together, keeping the easy smiles on their faces. He picks up her hand and brings it to his lips, brushing his lips across her knuckles.

“It was absolutely lovely to meet you,” he tells her and he can feel her trying not to roll her eyes at his antics.

“I look forward to doing this again,” she responds, before raising her hand to her face and brushing the shell of her ear with her index finger.

And that’s when the shit hits the fan.

 

* * *

 

In less than a minute, the front door has been smashed open, and Melinda has made a run for it, ripping her hat off and casting it into the wind, briefcase clutched tightly to her chest.

“What now sir?” she whispers furiously into her comms, but there is no reply and she groans out loud in frustration. There are armed men chasing her, and she is going to regret this later, but all she can do is run towards the docks and leap into the bay.

The water is a shock to her system - but at least it’s Spring and she won’t be stuck here for too long.

While she swims beneath the docks to find a good hiding spot, Phil is standing in a nearly empty coffee shop, gun pointed to his head by an angry not-so-former mobster. All he can do is flash a smile and raise his arms in surrender, letting them force him to his knees.

They bombard him with questions, asking him who he worked for, who his partner was, whether or not he was ready to die, and he can feel the cool metal of a gun digging into the back of his head.

“I barely know her. Today was our first date. She promised we’d grab a drink together,” he tells them over and over, and he really wishes he had paid closer attention during the undercover classes that taught them how to cry on demand, because he could really use a few tears to throw these guys off.

They’re relentless in their interrogation - apparently, he isn’t as good of a liar as he had convinced himself that he was. Four and a half hours later, a man enters via the broken door and Phil almost collapses in relief when he reports to his leader that their men had “lost the girl”, that she had “just vanished into thin air”.

He weighs his options.

There wasn’t a rescue team - he’d have to get out of this one himself. There were three men in the room, all growing restless.

He could take on three men.

 

* * *

 

He feels like he’s bruised and battered by the time he half runs, half crawls out of the coffee shop, leaving three unconscious bodies behind. Lola is still parked across the street, and all he can hear, all he has been able to hear through his comms for the past couple hours is static.

He needs to get out of here as soon as possible before more guns arrive, but he can’t leave without knowing where May is, if she’s managed to complete the mission. He contemplates just yelling her name out - shouting for her in the darkness. It’s a stupid idea, but he thinks he has a concussion, and he can’t think of any other way to find her.

“May!”

“Coulson?”

The reply is quiet, harsh, and surprisingly directly in his ear.

“May! Where are you?”

“I’m in the water.”

He frowns - thinking too hard is hurting his head, which is throbbing like there is no tomorrow, and walks towards the docks. Water. The Bay. Right. He was really going to need the medical team to check his brain for permanent damage after this. He worries about how he is going to find her in such a large body of water, but as he walks down the docks, the wood creaking beneath his feet, he spots a figure floating above the surface,

It’s May - he can tell as he nears her - also he can’t imagine why anyone else would be in the bay at this time of day. Her skin his horribly pale and her lips are blue, and get she seems to be putting all her energy into glaring at him rather than trying to swim back towards the dock.

His body is going to hate him for this tomorrow, but maybe his brain really is damaged, because he toes off his shoes and dives in. The water is freezing, and yeah, he can see why she’s angry now, but it’s just cold enough to wake him up enough and clear his head.

She presses the briefcase into his arms and he grabs it with one hand, wrapping the other around her and dragging her back towards dry land. She doesn’t speak until they finally reach Lola, and she’s shivering in the passenger’s seat, teeth chattering, her hair dripping water all over the place.

“I was in the bay for five hours.”

He has a feeling she is not going to let this one go.

He’s right.

 

* * *

 

When he returns to New York after a week long stint in medical to make sure he hasn’t done any permanent damage, he finds an envelope sitting on his desk.

He grins when he pulls out a Captain America Trading Card, signed like the previous one. There’s a note in the envelope too, and he smiles so widely his face begins to hurt.

_“Thank you for fishing me out. Eventually.”_

She is definitely going to get him back for this one.

He can’t wait.  



	3. III

Phil loses his first team member to a rogue sniper in December of 1992.

He knows in hindsight that he should have seen it coming - they even had a class about dealing with the loss of one’s team mate or partner at the Academy. An hour long session every two weeks preparing them for the pain and loss they might have to experience in the future; teaching them the best methods of dealing with it, of coping. In their line of work - death is inevitable - but he doesn’t expect it to happen so suddenly, or hit so close to home. He’s lost people before, his father, his mother. But this time it’s different - this time that there is someone he can blame.

Himself.

He had designed this operation, had handled it from the very beginning. Every single detail had been mapped out by him; he’d been meticulous, organised. It was a level one mission, easy, simple, a milk run for the two level four specialists who had been assigned to his team.

It should have been a piece of cake; one last mission before everyone headed home for the holidays.

Phil has been in charge of half a dozen operations more difficult that this one, all with more danger, more risk. This was supposed to have been a basic retrieval op; two specialists, one to go in, and one to watch the other’s back. They had orders to drop and swap intel, and then get the hell out before they could be discovered.

It should have been smooth sailing.

But they had failed.

And now a good agent is dead.

 

* * *

 

Phil meets Agents Claire Matthews and Thomas Chan two weeks before their first and only mission together, at a field office in Seattle. He’s been a “fully fledged” field agent for nearly two and a half years, and has had a mission success rate of one hundred percent. He knows that the two level four specialists have been assigned to his team to give him a recommendation for promotion to a Level Two clearance, if all should go well.

He stresses and frets about their assessment in the days leading up to meeting the pair, but the moment he does, his worries are gone.

At his base in New York, Phil doesn’t have much of a chance to interact with higher level agents - they’re mostly level ones and twos who work together on low risk missions and occasionally deal with setup or clean up. Fury is level six, but he also first met the man after confronting him for being a stalker outside a convenience store, so he really doesn’t feel quite the same vibe from the guy. Two unknown specialists though - the prospect of meeting them gives him so much anxiety that he can barely sleep the night before.

In some ways, they are nothing like what he’s been expecting.

Physically they look like most other specialists Phil remembers from the Academy and occasionally encounters on missions. Agent Chan is very tall, muscled, and seeing him in his official uniform makes Phil question why S.H.I.E.L.D. trained guys like him when they could have men like that. Agent Matthews is a little shorter, leaner, but Phil has never underestimated the strength of a woman, and he feels a small swell of pity for anyone who might make such an idiotic mistake.

Personality wise… Phil doesn’t know how to react when Agent Chan manages to crack six jokes in the span of five minutes, and Agent Matthews just stands there beside him with an almost unsettling smirk each time a punchline is thrown into the air. His first reaction is to laugh - which is what Agent Chan appears to specialise in, but then again, he’s not sure whether the man’s jokes are meant to be funny, or if they’re some sort of inside reference meant only for Agent Matthews and that they’re purposely messing with him.

His internal conflict over the matter is quickly resolved however, when Agent Matthews makes a comment about the weather outside - there’s a blizzard - and Agent Chan drapes his arm over her shoulder, angling his fingers to tug at the end of her ponytail.

“Hey Claire, what do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire?”

Phil watches with uncertainty as the question hangs in the silence for a moment, before Agent Matthews elbows Agent Chan sharply in the ribs with a huff.

“Frostbite. You get frostbite when you cross a snowman with a vampire. You told me that in Switzerland last month when we were buried in six feet of snow.”

Agent Chan doubles over in laughter, drawing attention from all the other agents at their desks, as Agent Matthews rolls her eyes at him and claps him none too softly across the back of his head. Phil stands opposite them, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck and maybe his confusion is really obvious, because the pair seem to take pity on him - at least Agent Matthews does - because she grabs Agent Chan by the arm and begins to escort him out of the room, waving for Phil to follow.

He can hear the snickers from behind him as he hurries to follow the specialists - he thinks that working with them for the next few weeks might not be so bad. They seem to be easy going enough and clearly work well together. And Agent Chan did have some pretty good jokes. He hopes that maybe he can even try a few himself. It would be nice to have someone around who could appreciate his humour.

 

* * *

 

Phil has always been a very observant person. He prefers to stand in the shadows and watch the interactions of others over making a point to participate. His training at the Communications Academy had only reinforced this - you could learn so much about a person just by studying their movements, facial expressions, reactions to things. All agents, from those in administration to their tactical teams had the ability to conceal their basic emotions to a certain degree, even from each other - but this was one area where his skills exceeded expectations. It was his job to learn everything he could about a person just by looking at them.

And in the three days he’s worked with Agent Chan and Agent Matthews, he’s learned much.

Agent Chan is very talkative. Likes to make friendly conversation with whoever he can, likes to “get to know” other people. He jokes around, can find something hilarious in just about any situation. Phil thinks that it might be a coping mechanism, to make light of unfortunate situations, to find hope even in the worst scenarios. But despite all the smiles, Agent Chan is also very quick to anger - there might be some underlying issues there. He’s a man with many emotions - Phil sees this first hand when attending one of their training sessions to scope out their skills. The files had a comprehensive list - but seeing it for himself made all the difference in the world.

Agent Matthews is a very attractive woman - only an idiot would deny that. She could easily pass for a model or an actress, but Phil thought her skills were much more impressive than her appearance. He had always known that female field agents and specialists were often disregarded by the more close minded. He saw it for himself from time to time. He never had to intervene; those imbeciles usually scurried away with their tail between their legs and blood pouring from their noses.

Phil is in one of the training rooms, watching the specialists hone their skills, when a pair of Level Two field agents begin to stir up trouble - snickering to one another in a way that he knows means trouble is coming.

“Look at Barbie’s legs, wonder what they’d look like wrapped around -”

The man, Agent Landon, doesn’t have the opportunity to finish his remark, because before Phil even has a chance to react, Agent Chan has the guy pinned up against the wall, arm at his throat, holding him up so his feet are dangling, unable to reach the ground.

As much as Phil might enjoy seeing a sleazebag who would make such comments pummeled into the ground, he’d hate to lose his specialist for his next mission, and decides it’s probably for the best that he try to intervene. He doesn’t have much standing as a Level One, but he might be able to talk some sense into Agent Chan. He can’t hear what the specialist is whispering, but from the look on the other guy’s face, Phil’s guessing that the words are none too pretty. He’s halfway across the room when Agent Matthews beats him to the punch, running over to her partner and placating him with a hand on his elbow. Phil is not even sure that words are exchanged between the two, but then Agent Chan slowly lowers the guy to the ground, holding him against the wall for a moment longer, before drawing his arm back and breaking Agent Landon’s nose with a sickening crack.

Agent Landon’s buddy scurries forward and grabs him by the arm, presumably dragging him off to medical, and Agent Chan is shaking his fist, opening and closing his hand with a grimace. Phil takes a step back, unsure of how to handle this situation, scratching the back of his head for a moment before making the decision to let them handle it themselves. There’s not much he can do but sit back and watch at this point.

Agent Matthews drops down onto the mats, pulling Agent Chan with her and begins to inspect his hand. Phil can’t hear what they’re saying; this would be a convenient time to have super hearing to be honest, but they both look pissed even as she runs gentle fingers over his bruised knuckles. He’s pretty adept at lip reading, but that is a skill that is not really required in this particular situation - Agent Matthews is clearly angry that Agent Chan defended her, lost his temper, and nearly smashed a colleagues face in, and Agent Chan is clearly annoyed but also ashamed of how he handled the situation.

Their frowns eventually morph into smiles as they speak - and not for the first time, Phil questions the relationship between the two specialists. S.H.I.E.L.D. has it’s protocols, but no rules that people aren’t willing to break, for a good enough reason. Plenty of agents are in relationships with coworkers - but most aren’t involved with those that they actively work with. It makes for too many distractions in the field, especially when you are too busy watching your partner’s back to focus on the mission.

The logical part of him thinks that it’s too dangerous, too risky. They already put their lives on the line out there - it’s too easy to be distracted, lose focus and put others in danger.

The still hopeful part of him thinks that a love like that may be the best kind of love there is. Committed to the cause, committed to your partner. Out there fighting together, having someone by your side who means everything to you. The closest to a normal life a field agent like him will probably ever get.

He doesn’t see it happening.

But that doesn’t stop him from wanting it.

 

* * *

 

Phil likes the S.H.I.E.L.D. van. He really does. It has heating, video surveillance from the forty best vantage points - thanks to the tech patching them through back at the nearest base, and is basically a glorified metal can to hold their gear and keep him from getting shot at. And so he sits back and watches the fuzzy feeds, a standard issued bullet-proof vest over his suit and tie, and a gun in it’s holster, ready to act if need be.

Once Agent Matthews returns with the intel, she’ll be picked up by another car, driven by a field agent that had joined their team last week. Phil would wait for the all clear, before giving Agent Chan the signal to leave his post, and they would take a second path back to their safe house and wait it out for a day before heading back to base. He has it all planned out to the very last detail - even choosing Agent Matthews’ outfit for the evening himself.

She had taken one look at the gown and shoes and snorted, enough to voice her disdain but kind enough to not comment out loud and really hurt Phil’s feelings. Even when she had changed at the safe house, modelling the dress for them, she had done so with an expression of displeasure, only smiling once Agent Chan had moved over to her, tugging on a stray curl and whispering something in her ear. Phil had felt his face redden at the display, still not entirely sure of the relationship between the two. He had closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand, and when he opened his eyes again, Agent Matthews and Chan were back to business, disassembling rifles beside him.

He can see Agent Matthews now too, in several of the videos on the tiny screens on one wall of the van. She’s moving around at the party, making small talk with all the right people before she goes in to retrieve the intel. Phil can only faintly hear the noise of the party, her voice and laughter drowning most of it out of the surrounding sound. In contrast, Agent Chan is completely unseen - he’s on the rooftop of the neighbouring building, positioned so that no one can get a glimpse - if S.H.I.E.L.D. has surveillance, there is no telling who might have it too. It’s not a risk Phil is willing to take just to keep an eye on a Level 4 specialist who can take care of himself.

Agent Matthews makes a comment about it to him, saying she respects his way of thinking, but that she’d prefer that he reconsidered.

He stands by his decision.

It soon becomes his biggest regret.

 

* * *

 

“Eagle is in the hutch. I’m on my way out.”

“Copy that.”

Phil tracks Agent Matthews’ movements through the different monitors as she makes her exit, slow enough as to not arouse suspicion, but fast enough to escape before discovery. She is in the doorway of the building when the chaos begins.

“Hey Claire. What did the grape do when he got stepped on?”

Phil can actually see Agent Matthews roll her eyes, even through the less than quality black and white image, and he can definitely hear the huff of annoyance she lets out.

“Really?”

“He let out a little -”

His words cut off there, the same moment a loud bang echoes through the night, and Phil can hear Agent Matthews’ scream, see a blur falling through the air, before the exact moment of impact.

The van shakes with it.

He can see the crumpled form of Agent Chan’s body, the front half hanging into the driver’s seat through the smashed windshield from eight different angles on his wall of surveillance.

Phil forces himself to take a deep breath, clenches his hands into fists to try and stop them from shaking as he jumps straight to “Plan F” - the last resort.

“Agent Sutton, we need evac. I’m calling in the clean up crew.”

He shoves the radio back into his pocket, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair and slams his hand against the “use only in the case of emergencies” button, before slipping out the back door, shutting it with a quiet bang.

They have five minutes before the van blows.

*

The ride back to base is quite possibly the most uncomfortable Phil has ever experienced. He’s sitting in the front with Agent Sutton, whose knuckles are white from how tightly she is gripping the steering wheel.

They can both hear the sounds of Agent Matthews’ cries.

Phil had offered to let her sit up front - he could keep an eye on the body. See up close the outcome of his failures. She had screamed when they tried to pull her away from Agent Chan, completely in hysterics, and they’d had no choice but to let her stay put, half lying on top of his broken body.

Her silver gown must be stained with blood now.

Just like his hands.

He doesn’t think any amount of scrubbing will wash it away.

 

* * *

 

They don’t speak again, not properly, until two days later, sitting opposite one another in the back of a jet flying them to Minnesota. He doesn’t know how to broach the subject - How does one apologise for killing someone’s partner?

He doesn’t have to.

“Thank you for saving my life, Phil.”

He looks up to meet her gaze, her eyes are red, he thinks that she probably hasn’t stopped crying since the incident, but he can see that her words are sincere. He must look confused, because she continues, voice cracking a little as she speaks.

“You reacted quickly. Got us out of there before any more damage could be done. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead too.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words just don’t come. He… he wants nothing more that to say sorry. Express his regret. If only he had listened to her, kept a closer eye on things. Agent Chan would still be alive. They wouldn’t be flying over to break the news to his family.

Tell them someone they loved was now dead.

Agent Matthews had insisted on going alone, but Phil was responsible, and he had to be there. To say sorry. To give her someone to lean on if they didn’t take the information well. He’s never done this before, but he expects it’ll be a common occurrence in the future.

He stays quiet because he doesn’t think she wants to talk - she didn’t say much in the two weeks he had known her - Agent Chan… he had done most of the talking. But now that he’s gone, there’s an uncomfortable silence that she clearly feels the need to fill.

He’s glad. The therapist he had sat down with for an hour yesterday had said talking about things is a way of coping. That for some, it’s cathartic. He… he really hasn’t been able to speak about his experiences yet. So all he can do is listen.

“We met first year, at the Academy. I dislocated his jaw when we sparred, and the next thing I knew, I had a best friend. He loved to joke around, talked so much that sometimes I wanted to tape his mouth shut. But what I’d give now just to hear one of his stupid jokes again.”

Phil thinks that he understands. He doesn’t have a best friend, a partner, but when Agent Matthews describes her relationship with Agent Chan, he can’t help but think about May, think about their brief but memorable moments together, think about how he might feel if she was dead.

It was not something he wanted to linger on his mind.

He’s memorised their files. They’ve been partners since their graduation in 1984. Losing your best friend of more than ten years… he thinks back to how he was when his mother passed… feels an overwhelming sadness that time can only try to heal.

The pain never really goes away.

 

* * *

 

It’s December 23rd.

The significance of the date doesn’t click in Phil’s mind until he’s in the car with Agent Matthews, and he stares out at the world from his passenger side window.

There’s only two sleeps until Christmas.

The whole city is covered in a thick blanket of snow, the air is heavy with the falling flakes. The sun has already set for the day, and the streets are sparkling with lights; every house they pass is extravagantly decorated.

Phil sees Santa, his reindeer, and various other Christmas themed structures, all decorations that bring him back to his childhood in Wisconsin and climbing up onto the roof with his father to string lights around. He almost loses himself in the feeling of it - he hasn’t celebrated properly since his mother’s death. There had been Christmas during fourth year at the Academy where Garrett had gotten so drunk he’d publicly urinated all over the side of their dorm building. That was a funny, if disturbing, memory.

The car begins to slow down at the end of the street, and Phil doesn’t even have to ask to know which house belongs to the family of Agent Chan.

_ Season’s Greetings  _ is written in multi-coloured lights across the roof, and there are a giant pair of salt and pepper shakers, wrapped with white string lights sitting on the front lawn. Agent Matthews parks by the curb where the snow had likely been cleared earlier in the day, and he can see her out of the corner of his eye, just sitting there, breathing in and out. He reaches over and softly pats her arm, and she forces a smile, nodding a few times, before undoing her seatbelt and opening up the door.

They walk up the paved pathway together in complete silence. Phil can almost smell the dinner cooking inside, hear the carols playing. What a way to spend Christmas. He hangs back, standing behind Agent Matthews as she goes to ring the doorbell. A robotic  _ Jingle Bells  _ chimes out - someone must have changed it for the holidays, and moments later, the door swings open, and Phil is greeted with the sight of a woman in a hideous Christmas sweater and a wide smile on her face, one that fades as soon as she recognises who in fact it is on her doorstep.

She doesn’t say another word, just opens the door and gestures for them to come in. Agent Matthews follows the woman into the kitchen, and gestures for Phil to stay back, so he’s left standing awkwardly in the front foyer, checking out his surroundings. This house feels like home. There is a Christmas tree set up in the sitting room - he can only see about a quarter of it from where he is - and photos line the walls. There’s several of Agent Chan and the woman, who Phil realises now must be his significant other. And he had been so sure too… about Agent Chan and Agent Matthews…

His thoughts are interrupted by the pitter patter of tiny feet, and he sees a little girl standing at the bottom of the stairs, in an equally horrible Christmas sweater, a teddy bear in her arms and an expression of curiosity.

“Where’s Daddy?” she asks him in her high pitched voice and Phil’s heart breaks as he hears the gut wrenching sobs coming from the kitchen.

His mistakes had torn a partnership apart. Torn a family apart. There was a woman who would never get her husband back, a little girl who would wonder why Daddy hadn’t come home for Christmas.

 

* * *

 

He tries to fall asleep later that evening, lying in bed at the crappy motel room S.H.I.E.L.D. had found for them last minute, but all he can see is Agent Chan’s body lying there, bones shattered, bullet in his skull, blood everywhere.

It turns out he’s not the only one who can’t sleep when Agent Matthews shows up at his room well past midnight, a bottle of cheap tequila in one hand and they drink their worries away. Phil doesn’t remember much of what happened that night, only that his dreams had been empty.

When he wakes up the next day, Agent Matthews is sitting cross-legged on the other side of his bed, filling in a mission report. She passes him lukewarm coffee in a styrofoam cup, probably from the vending machine in the hallway, and they’re silent as he slowly sobers up. She hands him the report when she’s finished with it, and pats his bare shoulder with a small smile.

“Thanks for being there for me. I really needed that. We’re flying back out in two hours, so you’ll have plenty of time to get ready.”

His eyes follow her until she leaves the room, and then he flops back against the lumpy pillow hands covering his face, hiding his expression from nobody.

 

* * *

 

Phil returns to New York a week later, and his body is close to shutting down from lack of sleep. He can’t eat without feeling nauseous, can’t even close his eyes without the sound of screaming in his ears, the smell of blood surrounding him, the image of his fallen comrade ingrained into his memory.

He has a week and a half of mandated time off to “recover” for the ordeal, but he can’t help but drop in to work and pick a few things up from his desk - straighten things out before he confines himself to his tiny S.H.I.E.L.D. apartment for the next nine days. He sneaks in at three in the morning, shortly after his jet touches down, and expects to find the office empty - it’s technically New Year’s Day and everyone else is off celebrating.

He doesn’t have much to be positive about.

Until he finds his office chair occupied by the one person he is least prepared to see.

Melinda May.

She’s lounging in his seat, her feet up on  _ his  _ desk, and he’s pretty sure she’s combing through one of his mission files. She smirks when she sees him approaching, and he sits down on the edge of his desk, opposite her, swatting at her legs.

“Boots off the table.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes and begins to move, but instead of just lowering her feet to the ground like he’d expected, she pushes off and sends herself flying backwards into the desk behind her.

“All commanding now that you’re Level Two, Agent Coulson,” she quips, waving the file in the air with a smirk. He snatches it out of her grip and drops it back onto his desk, trying to mask his surprise with annoyance.

He had not expected a good recommendation. Not after what had happened.

“If I’m Level Two then you don’t have clearance to read that file, Agent May.”

“Shiny new promotion and already pulling rank. And to think I came all the way out to pay you a visit.”

She’s teasing him now, giving him a cheeky grin that has him wanting to smile for the first time in a week.

“What you doing here anyway? I’m not supposed to be back in till the 10th.”

It’s three hours past New Year’s Eve and the closest person he has to a friend is paying him a visit instead of doing whatever else it was she could be. He should be grateful to see her, but he can’t quite figure out what possessed her to turn up and wait for him in his deserted office.

“We have a mission in a couple of weeks to start thinking about. After your break of course.”

He nods slowly. Just thinking about another operation is enough to give him a headache. But at least with May around, he thinks it’ll be enjoyable enough. He sighs, glancing at the stack of files on his desk. The recommendation May had been reading is sitting at the top. He had been rewarded, despite his failures.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he knows that it’s her way of comforting him. She doesn’t know why he’s upset; the official reports have yet to be submitted. She probably thinks that he’s just stressed and feeling alone in the holiday season.

Most people didn’t know it about her, but Melinda May always put others before herself.

“I like to think I know you pretty well. Heard you’d be back in town today; had a feeling you’d be here. Plus, my date was a total bust. Thought I might spend the first day of the New Year in better company, seeing as I’m stuck with my mother for the next week.”

He really smiles this time.

Maybe he can have one more night of peaceful sleep before the nightmares return again to haunt him. He has an appointment with another therapist in a few days time; he thinks he can hold it in till then. He hopes they clear him for active duty after the psyche evaluation.

He’s looking forward to working with May again.

He’s also terrified that he might fail again.


	4. IV

Phil Coulson isn’t one of those “macho men” who have too big of an ego to admit when they need help. He’s not a pushover; he certainly isn’t a wimp. He’s not afraid to ask for assistance, if push comes to shove. It isn’t a recent development, really more like a life long habit, or maybe instinct from his childhood - he never hid his bruises or scraped knees after a particularly zealous game of tag from his mother.

If he really is hurting, he’ll seek a fix.

So after two therapy sessions and close to a week of insomnia, he cracks and accepts the prescription of sleeping pills from his doctor. After he nearly trips over his feet several times on the way home, and he knows that he’s made the right decision. He doesn’t want to become dependent on medication to wash the pain, the horror, away, but he’s back on duty in two days and if he doesn’t get some sleep soon, there is no way he’s making it all the way to D.C. without a major accident occurring.

When he gets back to his apartment later that afternoon, he takes a hot shower, changes into fresh pajamas, climbs into bed and pops two pills; exactly the recommended dosage on the bottle. He’s hoping to get some rest, maybe not wake up within the hour, drenched in sweat and his own tears.

He sleeps for two days straight.

He’s very much well-rested, content, and extremely groggy when his eyes flutter open for the first time after finally letting his body just shut down, but his sleep addled brain doesn’t register that too well, and his first assumption is that he’s only dozed for an hour or so. He just lies beneath the covers, deeply breathing for a minute, before he pushes himself up on one arm to take a look at the clock on his nightstand.

It’s five in the morning.

On the tenth of January.

He presses a hand to his forehead, massaging his temples, and realises that he’s really not as tired as he remembers being. His mind might not feel completely relaxed, but his body has recovered well, and it’s time to head back into work.

But five is still early yet. He has time for a shower, some coffee, maybe even a proper breakfast. The diner on the corner two blocks away has amazing hotcakes; fluffy rounds of sponge stacked high, fruit piled on top and around, all drizzled in a syrupy glaze. It’s a dream come true for anyone with a sweet tooth. They also have his favourite savoury breakfast of choice - a modified full English breakfast, with waffles instead of toast, a beef patty in place of black pudding, served with a gravy boat rather than baked beans. He will admit that he thinks about their menu more than the average person might. He hasn’t been in the past few months, but now is a high time to visit. He suspects he’ll need the comfort, to help him power through his next mission.

Two weeks working with Melinda May.

Sounds like something to look forward to.

But first he has to survive the four hour drive down to D.C.

 

* * *

 

Phil supposes he really shouldn’t be all that surprised when walks into an uncomfortable situation upon arriving for his mission briefing at the Triskelion.

He parks Lola in the basement garage, picking a spot where he’s pretty confident she won’t get scratched or dented or even brushed up against. He had spent several days off early last year repairing the “damage” from Sausalito; the areas where the paint had been chipped ever so slightly were not even visible from three feet away, but he couldn’t just let Lola sit there if he had the means to fix her up.

He bypasses the atrium altogether this time - he’s going to be in D.C. for a week before they ship out to Detroit, and even May’s jibes about his love of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s history won’t keep him from exploring to his heart’s content the moment he has an hour or two to spare.

One of the agents he recognises, Lanie from administration, is working at the reception, and he’s roped into a lengthy conversation about his non-existent dating life and how her youngest son got into a fist fight at school last week. When she finally stops talking to catch her breath, he manages to get the location for his briefing from her, and quickly slips away before he’s late.

He doesn’t like being late.

He’s never late.

He’s  _ always  _ early.

But when he enters the meeting room on the twenty-second floor and finds it completely deserted, save for several empty coffee mugs on the table, he’s not so sure anymore. He steps outside and checks the door number, twice, before he enters again, scratching at the back of his neck, eyes scanning the room for any sign that he’s in the wrong place.

He tries really hard not to panic, running through a list of possible scenarios in his head. He’s at least ten minutes early, but someone from admin should have been by to set out the paperwork twenty minutes prior to the given starting time, and the cleaning crew would have cleared the room before that. Maybe he’s just really early and the meeting has been delayed. He probably didn’t receive the memo because he was the last one to arrive in the city. Except he’s got a pretty good rapport with Lanie and there’s no way she wouldn’t have let him know.

He sinks down into one of the chairs, one facing towards a screen, his back to the door, and folds his hands neatly in his lap, avoiding the overwhelming urge to drum his fingertips against the table top, or twiddle his thumbs.

Phil sits and breathes and he counts the seconds down in his head and by the time he’s reached eight minutes he’s really ready to panic because he’d screwed up his last mission and if he’s late to even a meeting about this one, he’s so getting bumped back down to level one and being sent to Alaska to join a cleanup crew. By five hundred and thirty-seven seconds he’s reached a state where he’s forgotten how to breathe, and it is terrible timing on his part, because he doesn’t notice what or who has entered the room, until a mug of hot coffee has been shoved right in front of his face.

It takes the years of training he’s undergone for him to not leap out of his seat with a blood-curdling shriek, and he doesn’t even have to turn to know who is behind all of this. But he does anyway, accepting the hot beverage with one hand, and spinning slowly around in his seat, until he comes face to face with exactly who he anticipates seeing.

Melinda May.

“Let me guess. The meeting is in the next room over and you-”

“I most definitely had Lanie tell you the wrong room number.”

He takes it all back.

He has a feeling the next two weeks are going to be filled with him falling victim to her practical jokes.

It’s  _ really  _ not going to be fun for him.

 

* * *

 

It takes May only five minutes after the mission briefing is over to get him to crack a smile.

They’re heading down to the garage parking together - she’d somehow conned him into agreeing to bunk with her at her S.H.I.E.L.D. issued apartment, rather than sharing an actual bunk at a temporary living facility for agents in town for short periods of time. It actually hadn’t taken too much convincing - she had a kitchen, which meant a decent home cooked meal, and more importantly, there would be no communal showers. It would be a good way for them to get used to having each other in their personal spaces, given what their upcoming mission would require from them.

“You know, I never thought I’d be married at twenty six.”

May is looking at her left hand, where a giant rock of a ring is sitting on her finger, and she actually looks annoyed. For some reason, the tone of her voice causes the corners of his lips to tilt upwards.

“You might want to take that off before people start congratulating you,” he responds, and she snorts, twisting at the ring and pulling it off her finger before depositing it back into the box she had open in her right hand. He catches a glimpse of a plainer, silver band, sitting in the black velvet beside it.

_ His. _

Phil is still not completely sure why he agreed to this mission. As a field agent he does need to actually be out in the field - but he’s used to organising operations, negotiating with local law enforcement, using his badge as a, well as a shield. Logically, he knows that doing undercover work has many benefits - for one, he’s just another field agent, not in charge of an entire mission. He’ll follow his orders and have the opportunity to hone his skills in an unfamiliar environment. He’s not sure it’s going to come down to having to shoot at someone - May would definitely beat him to the punch in that regard - but he might be able to learn to lie better.

For all his talents regarding the observation of the emotions of others, he has a pretty hard time concealing his own.

Maybe May can give him some pointers on lying through his teeth.

 

* * *

 

To his credit, Phil is only mildly confused when May stops him outside her apartment and grabs his hand, forcing the ring he had seen earlier onto his finger. He assumes that she wants to get started on practicing for their mission now, which surprises him because she made no mention of it during their ride over, or riding up in the elevator. He doesn’t mind really, but would prefer if they didn’t have to do anything weird out in the hallway, where other agents could walk out and see them. And so he waits patiently as she unlocks her door, his own hands gripping the handle of his suitcase tightly.

The first thing he notices when he enters her apartment isn’t the layout that is so similar to his own. It isn’t the simplicity in the decor, the pops of colour in an otherwise monochromatic space. The first thing he really sees, is the man sitting ever so casually on May’s couch, flipping lazily through the paper.

“Jack, this is my boss, Mr. Coulson. He’s crashing here for a couple nights because his wife kicked him out. Mr. Coulson, this is Jack.

Phil pauses for a moment, deciding to take the time to observe. He treats this like a recon mission, Jack as a surveillance target.

He doesn’t have to concentrate too hard, because as May heads towards the man, he closes his reading material, throwing it haphazardly onto the coffee table, before standing up and pulling her in for a kiss.

Ahh. Boyfriend. Right. Okay.

He’d heard May had her fair share of admirers, he really shouldn’t be surprised that she was in a relationship with somebody. And he definitely hadn’t thought about it often; hadn’t imagined what kind of man she was interested in. Absolutely not.

He definitely hadn’t pictured a fellow specialist, tall in stature, a face made for the cameras; one who shared her love of pranks, someone who could spar with her and not tap out under five minutes.

But he had not expected a civilian.

And he did not take May for one who liked public displays of affection. He remembers seeing her interact with her parents during their graduation. Her stiff posture as her mother spoke to her and the way she barely cracked a smile when her father laid a hand on her shoulder.

Yet she’s allowed the kiss to go on for nearly ten seconds, before pulling away and turning her attention back to him.

“Come on Mr. Coulson, I’ll show you where you can put your things for now.”

He slowly follows her through the apartment, trying his best to ignore the sound of Jack sinking back into the couch and retrieving his newspaper.

He had thought after six years of sporadic meetings, that he had learnt quite a bit about Melinda May.

Phil is seriously reconsidering that thought now.

Maybe he didn’t really know her all that well.

 

* * *

 

Phil is not sure he’s faced a more awkward situation in his entire life, standing in Melinda May’s  _ bedroom  _ and eavesdropping on the conversation she is currently having with her boyfriend. On the other hand, he is quite sure that staying here for the next week, and their subsequent undercover mission, may bring up a whole slew of moments that he will find uncomfortable.

“Was that your sudden work emergency? Baby-sitting your boss for a week?”

_ Baby-sitting?  _ He’s a little offended.

“Jack, I’m looking at a possible promotion. So I volunteered. The poor guy’s had a really tough time at home.”

The amount of pity in her voice actually makes him feel sorry for himself.

“Are you sure he’s not just trying to take advantage of you? I don’t trust those guys in suits.”

Okay he’s actually offended now. He actually makes a point to look down at his outfit and sees absolutely  _ nothing  _ wrong with it.

“Mr. Coulson is a good guy. And he still loves his wife - even though I heard she slept with their neighbour and is pregnant with the guy’s kid, and had the audacity to kick him out when he asked her about it. Said he never satisfied her.”

Phil cannot believe what he is hearing and waits with a bated breath through a pause that feels like an eternity, to hear Jack’s reply.

“Wow. That’s just… wow. Yeah, you should let him stay as long as he needs. That just sucks.”

He can actually imagine the shared looks of sympathy the couple must be exchanging in the living room.

He is going to  _ kill  _ May for this later.

 

* * *

 

In the seven days that Phil Coulson stays at Melinda May’s apartment, they learn more about one another than they have in the six years since they first met. It begins on the first evening, after a long discussion on who is taking the couch and who is taking the bed - Phil wins this argument. They’re both in the kitchen, May with a cup of tea, Phil with his mug of coffee. Jack had left after his conversation with May, and Phil had waited until the front door closed once more to exit her bedroom, doing his best attempt at a glare to show his dissatisfaction for May’s cover story on why he was staying here.

“What do you want for dinner?”

May is sitting on her kitchen counter, legs crossed, feet bare, holding her mug in both hands and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her like this. Away from a work environment, in her own space. She seems almost relaxed.

“Taking your responsibilities as my fake wife seriously are we? Or feeding your poor evicted boss so he’ll promote you at work?”

He grins to show that he’s teasing and she replies with a smirk, sliding down from her perch and moving over to stand beside him.

“If you want to spend the next week in the hospital with food poisoning, I will gladly whip up something for you to eat Coulson.”

He actually laughs at this, body shaking so violently he nearly spills his coffee. He can’t believe May keeps coffee in her apartment if she hates it so much - he thinks it might be for her visitors - she probably has people drop in on her often.

“I always thought that if you were to kill me, it would be a something a lot more violent, like a bullet to the head,” he comments with a smile, trying to speak as light heartedly about the topic as he can. He doesn’t want to think about it, what he saw, but he also knows he has to learn to live with it, because it isn’t something that he’ll ever get over.

“Don’t worry Coulson. I’m never shooting you in the head.”

She has her arms crossed, her posture relaxed, but he can see hear the seriousness of her tone, the sincerity in her expression, even as the smirk remains firmly in place.

“And I’m not going to subject you to my cooking either. I was thinking pizza or burgers. There are great places down the road.”

He grins, taking her tea cup out of her hands and setting it down on the counter beside the empty coffee mug.

“How about I make dinner, and neither of us end up in hospital this year.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes, but he’s really not joking.

If he’s this affected by an agent he barely knew dying, he’s not sure how he’ll react if May is the one who is hurt. Especially if it’s his fault. She doesn’t seem to notice the cloud of worry that has formed around him, grabbing her keys and waving for him to hurry up, calling out that she has nothing but beer in her fridge as she opens her front door.

He misses the look of concern she regards him with as she ushers out into the hall.

 

* * *

 

They spend more time at the Triskelion than at May’s apartment. There is a constant onslaught of new notes for their upcoming mission, changes that need to be made, details that they need to go over.

Phil actually tries both the pizza place and the burger bistro on the second and third days he's in D.C. He strolls the streets alone, exploring the city, taking in the sights. It's not quite as flashy as New York City in the evening, but he appreciates the view all the same.

May is off with her boyfriend.

For some reason, he can’t help but frown when he thinks about it. It’s not that she’s with someone, it’s how she seems to change when the guy is around. She’s different - different to the May he knows. The one who snickers at his jokes and plays pranks on him; the one who can pin him to the ground in under a minute and punch a hole in his stomach and rip his spine out if she wanted to.

It’s possible that the May he is familiar with is just an act, and the glimpses he sees of this one is the  _ real  _ Melinda May.

He doesn’t know; it’s one thing that plain observation just doesn’t help him see and he honestly doesn’t care which version is real.

He just hates that she feels the need to pretend, whether it is around him, or around others.

 

* * *

 

They allocate day six of their stay together to immerse themselves in their undercover personas, but before they proceed, there’s a conversation that needs to be had. They’re sitting side by side on her couch, and Coulson is really not hiding his nervousness well. He’d seemed fine on the Sausalito Op, but that had required a couple hours of pretending to be someone else.

This mission is a week long.

“We need to discuss our boundaries,” she tells him, turning to face him properly on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her and slinging an arm over the back of the seat.

“Boundaries,” he repeats back to her, and honestly, she can’t tell if he’s merely stating it, or asking out of confusion. He’s not often out in the field like she is, so she isn’t surprised that missions like these might be a little unfamiliar.

“We’re playing newlyweds. There are things we’re going to have to do, that neither of us normally do.”

She’s really spelling it out for him as simply as possible.

“Like what?”

She can actually see him swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing as he rubs the side of his face with his hand, and she has a feeling that he’s nervous. But she cannot glance if he’s seriously asking her because he doesn’t know - which is quite frankly ridiculous, or he just wants to hear her say it. She glares at him and lets out a sigh of exasperation.

“Like being in each other’s space.”

She punctuates her words by laying a hand over his and moving her body closer; she thinks she might actually be able to feel him shaking.

“Like touching.”

He swallows again as she raises her other hand to cup his jaw, fingers trailing over the stubble on his cheeks.

“Like kissing.”

She rises up onto her knees, moving her hands to rest against his shoulders, and hovers her face less than an inch from his. She can feel him breathing; he feels like he can’t, like all the oxygen has been sucked from the room, because she’s overwhelmed his senses.

“Are you okay with that?” she whispers to him, and he gulps, nodding slowly. There is barely any space between them, and it would be so easy to just lean in and kiss her, for practice, but he pulls back, rubbing his sweaty palms against his trousers and taking in a deep shuddering breath.

“It’s only pretend Coulson,” he hears her tell him, and repeats the words in his own mind.

It’s just pretend.

It’s for the mission.

And so they pretend, from that moment on.

He smiles and calls her darling, offering her his arm just to escort her to the kitchen. They drink their tea and coffee and talk about how they met, their backgrounds, their past.

His name is James. He works in real estate.

Her name is Tessa. She’s his trophy wife.

They re-enact their first date in the living room, rearranging the furniture to suit their needs. There’s hand holding and familiar steps and dancing together, barefoot on the carpet. She sways in his arms and they both lose focus for just a moment, thinking back to their first dance together at the academy.

They go over their backstories again, hashing out all the finer details.

And then there’s a table for two - her coffee table. He doesn’t pull out a chair for her because they sit cross-legged on the ground together, and there is no fancy dinner, just greasy pizza, but they talk and laugh all the same.

Phil expects them to break character when the time comes to retire for the evening. He can hear her moving around in her room after he’s changed into his sleepwear, settling down on the couch and quickly downing two of his sleeping pills. He knows he shouldn’t be taking them so often, and he won’t be able to on their mission - it’s too risky. But he doesn’t want to wake her up in the middle of the night with his nightmares, and he can’t have her find out either. The bottle ends up stashed back in his bag and he’s moving around, trying to find a comfortable position when he hears May re-entering the room.

“Just for practice,” she tells him softly, reaching a hand out towards him and pulling him up from the couch. He follows her into her bedroom silently, and stands to the side as she pulls the door closed behind them.

Phil watches as May climbs onto the left side of the bed, pulling back the covers and slipping underneath, sitting upright, hands folded neatly in her lap and just waiting for him to do something. He slowly putters over, and moves beneath the covers beside her, mimicking her position.

They turn to face one another at the same time.

“Sleep well James,” she tells him, and then she’s leaning in and pressing a kiss to his lips, and he thinks his heart may have stopped beating altogether. It’s quick and chaste and she’s pulling back already, a neutral expression on her face.

“Good night Tessa,” he responds, and then she’s reaching out to shut off the lights and the room is plunged into darkness. He settles down onto his side, his back facing her, and closes his eyes. She’s silent and still beside him, and he wonders how she can have so much control, even while unconscious.

He doesn’t know how long it takes him to drift off, but the last thing he remembers before he does is running his thumb over where her lips had met his.

The first thing he remembers the next morning is her voice.

_ Just for practice. _

They’re only pretending.

 

* * *

 

They’re good at pretending.

They’re good at hiding behind their smiles, concealing their true personalities from all those around them at this fancy winter retreat. They’re Agents Phil Coulson and Melinda May of S.H.I.E.L.D., but here, they’re just another pair of wealthy newlyweds, looking to have a good time.

Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes.

The girl at the front desk who helps them check in comments on how good they look together, but what she’s really commenting on is how good she thinks  _ James  _ looks. She quickly shrinks back into her seat when  _ Tessa  _ , who already has one arm looped with his, rests her other hand on his chest in what appears to be a gesture of possessiveness. She even throws in a glare for good measure as they grab their room keys and head off towards their suite.

They explore the resort, participating in every activity offered, chatting with as many people as they possibly can. James prattles on about his work, about the mansion he had just sold, about his own that they had been refurbishing prior to the wedding. Tessa is a bit of a flirt, going around to all the other men and chatting them up; a shy smile here, a casual touch there, the occasional wink.

But it is quite clear that at the end of the day that she only has eyes for her dear husband James, whose gaze trails after her as she moves throughout the room. They’re very much in love, and definitely not afraid to show it.

The perfect couple.

Maybe a little  _ too  _ perfect.

 

* * *

 

She’s really not a fan of the dancing.

But with Coulson as her partner, it’s not so bad.

Still, by the time they call it a night and head back to their hotel room, her feet are sore. He has an arm around her shoulder, and she’s leaning into his side, trying her best to keep a steady pace, but by the time they reach the elevator to take them back up to their floor, she’s truly exhausted. Week long missions aren’t too horrible, considering she’s heard tales of agents who spend years undercover; and they are only four days in at this point.

He guides her into the lift with a hand on her back, reaching out to press the button to their floor, and they stand in silence until the doors close. They’re alone for the first time since they left their room earlier in the afternoon.

“Tired?” he asks her, a dopey smile on his face. Coulson plays the loving husband well, she thinks. He’s caring, and attentive, but the truth is, she doesn’t think he has to fake it. He’s excellent at observation, and more importantly, he’s a good guy.

As Melinda, she would have rolled her eyes and nudged his shoulder, but she’s playing a character now, and it’s a good opportunity to take advantage of this situation. She smiles softly, nodding against his shoulder, and sighs when he cups the back of her head and presses a kiss to her forehead. She actually has to hold back a gasp of surprise when he pulls back and kneels to the ground, reaching for her leg, trailing his fingers along the back of her calf.

“James,” she whispers, smile slowly morphing into a smirk as he begins to undo the straps on her heels, lifting her foot to rest against his knee. She places a hand on his shoulder for balance, because Tessa is a little bit of a klutz, and she does not want to mime falling over backwards and hitting her head. His fingers brush against the bottom of her foot as he removes her shoe, and she does her best to refrain from kicking him in the face for it. He begins working on her other shoe as she steps back down onto solid ground, and the cool metal of the elevator is like heaven after walking around in heels all day.

He finishes with her other shoe as they arrive, and holding both heels in his left hand, he slips his right arm around her waist, his fingers just lightly gripping her hip as they exit out into the hallway together.

“You know, sometimes I forget how tiny you are,” he whispers to her, lips brushing the shell of her ear, and she grits her teeth, forcing a smile to hide her annoyance from anyone else who might be watching.

“You’ll remember why you shouldn’t have made that comment to me after I crack a rib or two the next time we spar together,” she responds, covering her mouth with one hand and giggling as she speaks to hide her words.

He laughs, thinking back to their first ever session together on the mats, their banter beforehand, being whipped in the face by her hair, her pinning him to the ground minutes after they met. He’s so lost in the memory he nearly misses their room, only stopping because he realises May has paused beside him. She shakes her head softly at him as he quickly moves to open the door, once again ushering her inside their room before he enters himself, closing and locking the door behind him.

He takes another step and walks straight into May, who has stopped in her tracks, and he blinks once, twice, trying to come up with a quick way to ask her what is wrong without breaking cover. They had their code words yes, but they were alone in here, and clearly something was wrong for her to freeze up like that. He doesn’t get a chance to ask his questions however, because before he can open his mouth, May is turning around, and pushing him up against the door, and then she’s kissing him.

Her shoes slip from his fingers, falling to the carpet, his hands moving almost instinctively to her waist, just holding her as they kiss. She doesn’t drag it out for too long, lips trailing against his cheek before he can feel her breath against his ear.

“Sensor went off. We’re being watched. Low range audio. High-quality camera over the door. Facing the bed.”

He nods against her hair.

Somehow, their target is on to them.

It’s probably his fault - his head hasn’t been in the game. May was much better at pretending than he was. She seemed to be able to separate her personal life from missions in the blink of an eye; he couldn’t do that. It was too difficult, especially with her. In reality she is his acquaintance, somewhat of a friend. And here, in this hotel room, she is his wife - no, Tessa is James’ wife.

He is James.

She is Tessa.

But all he sees, all he feels, is Melinda May.

She’s kissing his neck, her fingers running up and down his chest, occasionally pausing to toy with the buttons of his dress shirt and he knows that she’s probably trying to maintain cover, but he’s not sure all this is necessary.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, using her hair as a curtain to block out whoever might be surveilling them.

“We’re supposed to be newlyweds. What do you think I’m doing?”

Her voice is lower, not just quieter, but lower, and she makes a point of pulling back, and tugging the ends of his shirt out before her hands gravitate to his belt, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants and drawing him closer to her. He focuses on staring only at her eyes, and maybe it’s because of how dim the lights are, but he almost swears that her eyes are darker. He’s probably imagining things - he’s tired and it’s been a long day. She doesn’t let him get lost in his thoughts for much longer, because her fingers have returned to his shirt and she’s now sliding the buttons out of their holes, one by one.

He may or may not have pictured this scenario in his head before.

There was no way he thought it would ever happen.

When all the buttons are undone, she places a hand on his chest, fingernails scratching at the hair there, and then she’s biting her lip and he is done for. It takes all his concentration to shrug out of his shirt, letting it fall to the ground. She is not May. She is Tessa. He is James. It’s perfectly normal for Tessa and James to do this. They’re married; they’re in love.

He leans down and presses his lips to hers, both of his hands going behind her shoulders, one to bury itself in her hair, the other finding the zipper at the back of her dress. Once he has it between his fingers, he begins to tug it slowly down, his fingers trailing down the newly exposed skin of her back as he goes. He can’t see it for sure in this lighting, but he’s pretty sure there’s a pink tinge on her cheeks when she pulls away from the kiss, throwing her head back and letting out a soft groan.

Melinda is glad that Coulson can’t see her expression as he begins to pull her dress off, tugging the straps so they fall from her shoulders. It’s… it’s not hard for her to pretend. His fingers trace a trail of fire across her body; her skin is almost burning where he’s touched her.

Maybe she’s letting more of herself bleed through into her character than she should.

But they need this. They need to keep their cover. Nearly blowing two missions in a row would certainly guarantee that there would not be a third.

Phil tries not to stare as May’s dress falls to the ground, pooling at her feet, but he can’t help it. He doesn’t think there’s a person on the planet who wouldn’t. He almost lets out a groan of frustration when she catches him checking her out and just grins at him, arms reaching up to hook around his neck. She’s giving him a look. The same one she had last week in her apartment, when they were discussing boundaries.

There were none.

They’re keeping cover.

They are Tessa and James. Newlyweds.

She kicks her dress to one side and begins walking backwards towards their bed, giggling as she drags him with her. He has one arm around her waist, the other trailing up her back until he hits her bra. He’d tried so hard to not let his gaze linger - well he had tried, and quickly given up, but how could he not admire the dark green satin set she had chosen for the evening. It was the perfect balance between sexy and classy. He digs his fingers around the clasp, and his hands might be shaking a little, but her hands are fiddling with his belt and he’s trying to keep some semblance of control.

She gives him another kiss, this one quick, but he can still feel her smile against his lips before they slowly make their way down his neck. He abandons his task for just a moment, moving his hands up to her hair, gently tugging it, sweeping it over one shoulder and baring the other. He begins to place wet, open mouthed kisses against her skin, and almost regrets his decision because she’s making sounds, little grunts of pleasure that are taking away his focus. He bites down at the point where her neck and shoulders meet, and she actually whines, the high pitched noise echoing through the room. He closes his eyes briefly, trying to return to the task at hand, his frustration growing every second that he cannot get her bra off.

He can actually hear her softly snickering as he roughly tugs at it for the fifth time, fingers fumbling at the clasp, and he is beyond irritated now. He moves his other hand up her side, holding the band in place before pulling with the other, and lets out a sigh of relief when he feels it unhook.

“Took you long enough,” she scoffs, before taking the lobe of his ear into her mouth and giving it a quick nip. He’s mildly offended, but also can’t bring himself to care enough to come up with a retort on the spot. They can have this discussion as themselves later.

They’re standing at the end of their bed, and he doesn’t know about her, but he doesn’t particularly relish the thought of actually doing anything for the cameras to see. She’s already shrugged her bra off, flinging it over his shoulder, and he’s certainly taken an appropriate amount of time to admire her physique. He can innocently appreciate her body… she’d probably do the same with him. He’s not so sure about letting their enemies do the same.

He’s covering her from whoever is spying on them now, but one wrong turn and they’re basically nude on camera - not quite what he signed up for as an agent. And so he wraps both arms tightly around her waist and lifts her off the ground, just slightly, hoping she’ll get the message.

She does.

He tries his best to stay steady as she leaps up, her legs locking together behind his back, one arm hooking around his neck, the other cupping his face to draw him in for another kiss. He had thought it would be more difficult, kissing Melinda May. But it’s really not.

This isn’t real. It’s just pretend.

That thought makes things simpler.

He slowly walks them over to the side of the bed, reaching one arm out to pull back the covers, before pressing her down on the sheets, moving his body over her to shield her from the camera. They shuffle as fluidly as possible over to the centre of the bed, and he makes sure that they’re both suitably covered before breaking the kiss. He’s hovering above her, trying not to crush her with the weight of his body - though somehow he doesn’t think anything could break someone as strong as her.

“You need to take your pants off,” she hisses, pressing a palm to his chest and with the realisation that whoever was monitoring them surely wouldn’t believe that they were having sex while his bottom half was still fully clothed, he rolls off her and begins the unpleasant task of undoing his belt and removing his pants. He makes a point of kicking them off the bed - it’s all just for show, before climbing back over her, and he’s well aware that they’re basically naked aside from their underwear.

“How do you want to do this?”

She smirks.

“This will work just fine. And you might want to be a little louder, you know, really give them a show.”

His jaw drops at her words, and she gives him a sly grin before tugging his head down to her neck. He keeps his knees on either side of her, bracing himself on his elbows and begins to move. If he thought the noises she was making before were bad, these are a special brand of torture, designed to bring him to the brink of death. She’s moaning, loudly, with every move he makes and he feels a little foolish, but he has an act to keep up, so he grunts in time with her. She runs her nails down his back and he feels a little weak, like his arms are going to give out on him, but he manages to hold out until she reaches a hand down and smacks his ass.

His elbows buckle and he collapses on top of her, and god, he can feel her breasts, pressed right up against his chest and she can probably feel his…

“Jeez, you’re really packing down there aren’t you.”

He is definitely blushing now. In fact, he’s probably as red as the lipstick she had been wearing earlier - and he means that literally - with all the kisses they had exchanged tonight,  _ he’s  _ probably the one wearing it now. He tries to focus on keeping his breathing even, but all he can feel his her; a strand of her hair caught between his fingers, her body, hot and warm beneath his. He’s losing control of his body, beginning to react as one might when they had a beautiful  _ naked  _ woman lying under them...

She laughs and kisses him again, just once more, before gently shoving at him to move. As much as she didn’t mind the feeling of him pressing her into the mattress, she had a sneaking suspicion that if he didn’t get off her soon, he might never be able to look her in the eye again. He pushes himself up with one arm, and flops down onto his back beside her, and they both hope this is something they can joke about in the future.

They hadn’t broken through their boundaries, really.

But the lines were beginning to blur.

 

* * *

 

When Melinda next awakens, she expects the sun to have started to rise already, but she opens her eyes to see the room still dimly lit and she cannot comprehend why she has been drawn from her sleep this early in the morning, until she hears the whimpering coming from beside her. Her mind is reeling even in the split second before she turns.

_ What if we’ve blown our cover? What if Coulson is hurt? _

The sight she finds is no less horrific than being caught spying on an evil billionaire.

Coulson has his back to her as usual, but his entire body is shaking, trembling, and she has to take a moment, a deep breath, in order to steady her own hands as she reaches for him. He lashes out as her fingers touch his shoulder, and she’s forced to climb over him, press him down to keep him from struggling. His eyes are closed tightly and his lips are forming words she can’t hear, words with no sounds, but she knows that he’s scared, he’s upset.

He’s terrified.

Gently, using her lower body to hold him down, she places her hands on his shoulders, and gives him several slight shakes in a row. When that doesn’t work, she leans down, lips hovering by his ear, and calls out his name, softly enough so the bugs won’t pick it up, but hopefully loud enough to draw him back to reality.

“Coulson. Coulson. Wake up.”

She keeps still as he slowly begins to wake, and sighs in relief when his eyes open. He’s dazed, confused, part of his mind still focused on whatever he had seen before she had managed to wake him up. In a different scenario, she’d make sure he took a shower, had a fresh change of clothes, and then ply him with a shot or two to help him relax before letting him talk it out if he wanted - she had a feeling he would - but they don’t have the liberty to make that happen.

The mission comes first.

And so she places a hand on his cheek, her thumb darting out to wipe away a stray tear, and ignoring his confusion, presses her lips to his forehead.

“You had a nightmare honey. It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

He doesn’t react for the longest time, and then just nods. She gives him a small smile, moving from her position atop him back to her place by his side. She doesn’t ask him if he wants a drink, something soothing to help him sleep, doesn’t ask him if he needs to talk.

That will have to wait.

What she does do is gently rub circles into his shoulder, calming him down with her touch as best as she can. She’s really not a comfort person, but she can pretend.

“Go back to sleep,” she whispers to him, keeping up the steady movement of her hands. She can tell the moment that he’s drifted off, but the tension in his body doesn’t disappear. He’s exhausted, she knows that much. Probably hasn’t been sleeping properly for a while now. Something must have happened on his last mission - she’d heard rumours, but she doesn’t want to dig this time. In their line of work, they see things, horrible things that can’t be erased no matter how hard anyone tries.

She knows he’ll get past it. Maybe he’ll even talk about it when he’s ready.

But for tonight, it’s her turn to stay awake.

 

* * *

 

Against all odds, they somehow manage to pull it off.

The mission is a success; all the information they had managed to gather on their target is useful for S.H.I.E.L.D., whatever the organisation was planning to do with it.

After  _ that night  _ they’d carried on as usual, albeit trying to show as much affection for one another as possible without making it seem forced. There had been breakfast out on the terrace, a stroll together through the gardens and a well-timed kiss standing in the falling snow when they were sure that people were watching. They had returned to their rooms in the middle of the day, Melinda turning to Phil with a grin, and he knew that the surveillance equipment that had been snuck into their room the day before, had evidently quickly been removed during their time out this morning.

And so they blend in, they continue their work, and when the week is up, they check out of the hotel, driving away in Lola. James and Tessa Rhodes disappear without a trace.

 

* * *

 

There’s hours of debrief before they’re allowed to go, both receiving a clap on the back from Agent Shaw, their mission commander.

“You okay, Coulson?”

May’s watching him pack, neatly folding all his clothes before lining them up inside his suitcase. He’s tired, exhausted really, but he doesn’t even get a break to unwind from the mission, because he’s needed back in New York.

What a life they lead.

So as much as he wants to tell May that no, he’s really not okay - that he needs to take maybe just another day off, visit his therapist, talk things out, he simply nods.

“I thought we could go and grab that drink I promised you. Thought that maybe you’d like to talk?”

His hands freeze halfway between the couch and his belongings, shirt held tightly in his grip as he looks up to make eye contact with her. She’s smiling, but he can see the concern that is there. She knows something is up with him - he’s not surprised, especially after that night.

He wants to say yes. He wants to put on some casual clothes and take her out to a nice bar and have a drink. He wants to tell her all his worries; he knows deep down that it will make him feel better, but he also knows that he doesn’t have good control over his emotions right now, that he might say or do something stupid that could ruin this friendship that is beginning to develop between them.

She already has someone in her life to care about; that’s not going to change because of these feelings that he doesn’t even understand.

“I fly out to Florida for an Op tomorrow morning, and right now all I really need is to get back to New York and catch some sleep.”

The flash of disappointment across her face - he pretends he imagined that.

He offers her a weak smile that she barely manages to return, and they say their next words in almost perfect harmony.

“Next time?”


	5. V

Melinda tries not to make a habit of hanging around seedy bars and drinking till the sun comes up, but her life is more stressful than she’d ever care to admit. All she needs sometimes is a night out on the town, shedding the armour she wears for work and feeling comfortable in her own skin; ripped jeans, leather jackets and a shot of whiskey in her hand.

Sometimes she wonders if she made the right choice - joining S.H.I.E.L.D, choosing a path like the one her mother did. She still doesn't know how the woman managed it, the balance between work and having a personal life. She doesn't know how her father did it either, knowing how dangerous the life of a spy was, and still choosing to be part of it.

Melinda thinks that might be why things between her parents ended the way they did. Even so, a life like that is better than what she has now.

Lying comes easily for her. It doesn't sit well on her mind or her heart, but it isn't difficult to conceal the truth and speak only of falsities to protect her organisation and the good they are trying to do in the world. Civilians can't know about these things because they aren't ready to hear them yet.

The moment Jack had started asking questions about why she was always out of town and often came back worse for wear, she had to end things.

That had been four days ago.

She's not broken up about it; not particularly sad at all. He’d been a decent enough guy and they’d had fun together, but it wasn't exactly as if she’d expected to settle down and leave her life behind for him. Their relationship had been good while it lasted, but she was under no delusions that some guy she’d met at a club one night would be the one for her.

In all honesty, she is not looking for someone to be by her side until the end.

She’s only searching for someone who can be here now; to warm her bed in the cold months and take her mind off the things she has to do, the choices she has to make. She doesn't want to be alone, and sometimes she wonders if it would be easier to just date a fellow agent. It would eliminate the need for the constant secrecy, but she knows that workplace romances rarely pan out and a thousand things could go wrong; affect their judgement, affect the mission.

She wants someone who can let her forget, just for the night.

Melinda scans the room, only moving her head slightly to either side to observe the other occupants. She had catalogued them in her mind upon entering, but that had been two hours and seven drinks ago. She drags her gaze over several figures, pausing over the muscled blonde at the end of the bar.

He would suit her needs just fine.

She tosses her hair over one shoulder and makes her way over, sliding up onto the barstool beside him and calling for the bartender to bring them another round.

“Sarah,” she introduces herself, placing a hand on his bicep, appreciating the muscles beneath her fingers.

He grins and she knows that she’s found her entertainment for the evening.

 

* * *

 

Melinda is back at her apartment by five in the morning, mostly sobered up as she turns the key in the lock. She kicks the heels off her feet as soon as the door is closed behind her, and shrugs off her jacket, tossing it onto the back of an arm chair.

She's let off enough steam to actually feel relaxed - almost relaxed enough for eight hours of sleep, but the first thing she does is head for the shower, washing away the touch of a man whose name she doesn't care to remember, the sweat from a warm summer’s evening, letting the hot water give back the energy she had lost earlier.

By the time she towels off and changes, the clock on her bedside table tells her it’s close to six in the morning, too late to go back to bed, crawl beneath the covers and fall asleep.

She moves through her tai chi routine instead, letting it clear her mind and soothe her muscles. The space around her is empty, the room around her is silent.

Sometimes she needs the solitude, but it isn't something she wants to live with forever.

It wouldn't be so bad if there was someone there watching her, someone to brew her tea and make her breakfast. Not everyday - just those where she needed somebody to lean on.

As she waits for the water in the kettle to boil, after digging through her abysmally empty pantries for tea, she thinks briefly back to the week Coulson had been her guest; his sleeping form on the couch as she moved around before sunrise, not waking until long after she had come back from her morning run. There was his off-key singing in the bathroom because he thought she couldn't hear him from the kitchen, the meals that he made for them to share, and the bond they had formed in just seven days.

She has friends, acquaintances, allies at the Triskelion. People she will occasionally spend her down time with, or trade stories about missions with, provided they had the same clearance level. But things with Coulson had always been a little different. She can’t explain why. The thought worries her at times - not that she thinks of it often, but that she thinks of it at all.

They have spent less than a combined total of three months in one another’s company.

They're barely friends.

Melinda wouldn't mind it if they were - friends that is. She doesn't know if it's something she’ll like, because in her experience, too much of anyone isn't something she wants to deal with.

But she doesn't think it'll be so bad with him.

She's certainly not afraid of the prospect.

 

* * *

 

Phil makes a point to drag himself out of bed earlier this particular morning. In less than six hours, he’s being shipped off to Buenos Aires with a field team to monitor an illegal arms trade, who, if their sources are correct, may have come into possession of an 0-8-4. He has no idea just how long he’ll be stuck in a cramped safe house with seven other agents, and wants nothing more than to savour his last few hours of relative freedom.

The kitchen has only just become somewhat familiar to him; it's easy enough for him to find the pots and pans but it still takes him two tries to gather all the ingredients he’ll need to whip up a breakfast substantial enough to impress. He’ll never be a cooking connoisseur, but he can do basic.

He does good basic.

The pancakes are fluffy, the eggs sunny side up and the bacon crisped to perfection. He assembles the food on two plates before moving to rummage through the drawers for utensils.

“Silverware is in the third drawer by the stove top,” he hears from the next room, and he groans, shutting the doors he had just pulled open.

He stands up from where he is crouched by the bottom cupboards, frown morphing into a grin as moves to the other side of the kitchen, reaching over and pulling open the correct drawer, triumphantly retrieving a pair of forks and knives.

“I usually have a better memory than this,” he calls out with a sigh, setting the utensils down beside the plates before moving over to pour out the coffee. He adds two heaped teaspoons of sugar and a dash of milk to one mug, leaving the other plain.

He has just placed the milk back into the fridge when an arm slips around him and steals one of the two mugs he had set onto the countertop earlier.

“I'm sure you do.”

Phil turns with a huff, really not up for the teasing this early on in the day, but appreciating the conversation nonetheless. He did like having someone to talk to - it was an especially nice bonus if they responded.

Of course he hadn't envisioned that  _ “someone”  _ would be his current casual sex partner. Then again, he really hadn't been expecting to embark on a relationship that involved mostly long evenings in bed and brief breakfasts in the morning. The dreamer in him still wants to meet the love of his life, for them to settle down and build a home together. The realist knows that dreams are sweet, but seldom come true.

And he’ll take comfort where he can find it.

Charlotte is from the Science and Technology department situated on the fourth floor of their New York S.H.I.E.L.D. base. He had conversed with her on six separate occasions when dropping by to test out weaponry, before asking her out for drinks. He tells himself that it was just a coincidence that this occurred the week after his therapist had suggested trying to find new friendships and create a comforting environment for himself.

One drink had turned into another and before he knew it they were tangled in the sheets together.

He's not going to complain that an attractive woman likes him enough to have sex with him on the regular. She had a good sense of humour and told him to call her “Chuck” the first time they met. Being part of the agency made it easier - there were no lies, no half-truths.

No excuses.

He tells her he’ll be out of town indefinitely, and she just shrugs and lets him know to hit her up whenever he’s next around.

It's not going to last, but he’ll enjoy it while he can.

 

* * *

 

After two weeks in a cramped safe house, sleeping on the floor in between two snoring agents, Phil wishes he had made the effort to savour what little down time he had in between missions a bit more. The shack they’re sharing is fortified and stores enough weaponry to take down a small army, but had not been designed with the comfort of its occupants in mind.

Phil isn’t a materialistic guy.

Really.

But a bed would have been nice.

He’d spent six days sleeping in a tent just three months earlier, and that was by far more comfortable than where he is now.

The crappy safehouse is the first of two things driving him insane. The second being that the only company he has feels like an unjustified punishment.

There are three field agents including himself, four specialists and a technician on their eight man team. Their commander is off on the other side of town, monitoring their progress with a back up field team, just in case things go sideways. He wishes he were there with them - he suspects the living quarters are even worse than where he is now, but at least it would give him some sort of break from Garrett and his incessant ribbing.

They might have been reluctant friends during their academy days, sharing Fury as a supervising officer, but Phil has learnt that some people are better in small doses, John Garrett being one of those people. He doesn’t even recall him being this bad back in the day - but there had been rumours about him getting pretty hurt on an early operation.

Trauma changes people.

This much he knows.

Still, when they’re crowded together in a dive bar to let off some steam, Phil doesn’t appreciate being mocked for his private life, much less bringing other agents into it. Garrett’s partner Danton is equally crude, making vulgar gestures with his hands as he describes a particularly busty agent from the Miami Administration office.

When it gets to Phil’s turn to describe a conquest or two, seven pairs of eyes watching him expectantly, he just grabs another shot from the bar, letting the liquid burn his throat on the way down. He has absolutely no desire to regale these men with the sordid tales of his love affairs.

Garrett laughs loudly, pounding him on the back, almost throwing him off his seat.

“Coulson here’s been harboring a little crush for May since our days at the Academy,” he announces to the room. Most of their coworkers have no idea what Garrett is talking about, but it doesn’t stop the rage beginning to bubble up inside Phil at May’s name being brought into this horrible conversation.  

“She's the real exotic type, probably has a hundred guys waitin’ to take their turns.”

Phil clenches his fists, tucking his fingers in beneath his thumbs, entire body visibly tensing before trying to force himself to relax; as satisfying as it could be to see his knuckles collide with Garrett’s nose, he doesn’t want to face disciplinary action just because the drunken asshole doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut.

“Poor guy doesn't stand a chance.”

The saddest thing is, on this part, Garrett isn’t wrong.

 

* * *

 

Phil wishes later that he had just let loose in that moment, and punched his old pal in the face; the sleazebag deserved nothing less than that. Plus, it would have meant being benched while the rest of his team was in the field, which sounded like a terrible outcome at first, but really now, seemed to be the better of two evils.

He’d take a week of being chained to a desk over this, but then again, it’s probably where he’s headed for anyway.  

Getting shot is not exactly a pleasant experience.

In fact, it kind of sucks.

Of course in the moment, Phil is too busy trying to figure out what the hell has happened and why there is a searing pain in his gut as he collapses to the ground, the edges of his vision darkening as his head makes contact with the cobblestone pavement. He can almost ignore the sickening crack that is his skull sustaining a fracture, because even though what he can see is blurred, he can still make out the crimson stains on both his hands.

Maybe he has a concussion, but his primary concern isn’t that there’s a hole through his abdomen causing his blood supply to empty out onto the dirty street. He’s more worried about the fact that the little hand painted clay llama in his back pocket may have been crushed in his fall. He’d spent nearly thirty minutes under the afternoon sun haggling with one of the local merchants to get that specific figure.

It would be such a shame if it were damaged.

He’s not really quite sure what happens next; the last things he can recall are the startled shouts of his teammates, the sound of gunfire raining down upon a heavily populated city and the overwhelming pain he feels.

It burns like a fire while the rest of him grows colder.

The noise becomes an indistinct buzz in his ears.

Blue skies fade to an endless black mirage.

 

* * *

 

There are loud noises; machines beeping and people shouting.

Men and women in white coats.

A blur all around him.

There’s moving and waking and sleeping.

He’s so confused.

There’s so much pain.

 

* * *

 

Melinda thinks she might like to visit Singapore again on her down time; explore the city, try all the local cuisine, find the hidden gems tucked away amongst the hustle bustle of the busy streets. The only sights she’s had time to see since she arrived earlier this week are the interior of her hotel bedroom, and the limited view from the one window on the west wall.

That and the sight of Agent Hensley puttering around the room like the clueless idiot he is. Level Three clearance obviously meant  _ very  _ little in this day and age - she cannot for the life of her fathom how such a useless person could be promoted to such a position. It takes her an immeasurable amount of self control not to throw his arm off her shoulders or slam an elbow into his ribcage each time he “maintains” their cover by acting affectionate.

She has mixed feelings about going undercover.

In this case, everything just feels a little too artificial.

Melinda isn’t as good as pretending as she is given credit for - but in this case, she’s not the only one to blame. If her partner were more useful, the mission would be smooth sailing and they would have been done two days after arriving. Instead they’re stuck here monitoring their mark from a distance because they had missed an easy opportunity to gain the man’s trust and at the same time get access to his enterprises.

It is entirely Hensley’s fault.

She thinks there might be the slightest possibility of going insane if she has to spend another minute in the same room as the man. Luckily for her - either the gods have answered her prayers or their commanding officer has heard her whispering wishes for Agent Hensley to take a tumble off a building, because she’s finally given something else to do.

In all honesty she had been three seconds away from clocking Hensley on the back of the head and leaving him unconscious in the tub for the evening just for a little reprieve. At this point she’s not even worried about maintaining professionalism - she’d rather have her ass shipped all the way back to the States than being on a mission with such an incompetent excuse of a human being.

He couldn’t even strip a gun.

Or throw a punch.

She doesn’t need a guy like that to watch her back - incapacitating him and leaving him behind while she carried out the mission would not make a difference to the outcome. She’d still get the job done and he still wouldn’t have to lift a finger - the upside is they’d probably never be paired together again.

But luckily for him, she’s off to tail a suspicious figure while he stays at the hotel, monitoring their incredibly boring mark in the building across the street. She hopes that the potentially evil businessman does something incriminating soon so they can take him out and head home.

 

* * *

 

The air outside is thick and muggy; it's the wet season here and Melinda can almost feel the sweat beginning to form on her skin. The heat and humidity has not faded even with the sun beginning to set for the evening, the sky darkening even as the city begins to light up in preparation for the night life.

She is currently tailing a man that sources say is involved in a small time underground drug ring that could have connections to their target. Any man is suspicious if you look close enough - but this one has done nothing but shop for dinner ingredients, conversing with friendly old shopkeepers about their grandchildren in an effort to score a discount. She follows him through the markets, watches as he juggles vegetables to entertain children playing on the streets, buying meat scraps from one shop to feed to the wild dogs in the back alleyways.

He’s just a run of the mill civilian going about his day. Sure he’s probably ripped several store owners off with the prices they gave him for produce, but other than that, there is nothing remarkable about the guy. He’d probably make a great con artist if he put in the effort. Melinda observes from a distance as he finishes with his shopping - tails him all the way home.

Old building, seventh floor. She watches the shadows move from her position across the street and determines that he’s married, one kid, another on the way. She stays there, leaning against the brick of the opposite building, until the lights in the building have all switched off, and the city slowly begins to go to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The stars have begun to fade, the sky growing lighter with each passing moment as she finally makes her way back to the hotel. The streets are nearly empty, a clear contrast from the afternoons or evenings, though she does pass a few vendors already beginning to set up for another day of business.

Melinda offers the concierge a wide smile that fits the persona of her cheery cover, and makes an effort to stumble slightly in her steps, ensuring that anybody who happened to glance at her would see nothing more than a tipsy vacationer returning from a fun-filled night out.

She even slumps against the elevator wall, giggling to herself, just in case the cameras are watching.

In her experience, the cameras are always watching.

She estimates that she’ll have to trade places with Hensley, give him a chance to sleep while she monitors their mark and makes sure there’s nothing shady going on. The guy she’d tailed earlier had offered up absolutely nothing useful; it’s probably too much to hope that they’d had any luck back here. She pauses as she prepares to open the door, listening for any signs of trouble - she can hear only one pair of familiar footsteps on the plush carpet inside the room - Hensley is always up and moving around - so she lowers her guard and enters.

Melinda is not a big fan of surprises.

So when she turns around after securing the lock on the door, and finds herself engulfed in a tight embrace by her irritating partner, her first reaction is to incapacitate him.

In three seconds flat she has him pinned to the ground, her knee pressing just hard enough across his neck to hold him down; she stops herself from increasing the pressure, which would undoubtedly crush his windpipe and cut off his air supply. She’s not sure what possessed him to try and hug her, but it’s not worth murdering a man over, however infuriating he may be.

“Agent May, stand down.”

She freezes where she is hovered over Hensley’s semi-unconscious body, slowly tilting her head up to see her commanding officer standing by the end of the bed, arms across his chest and a grim expression upon his face. She gingerly moves off her fallen partner and offers a hand to pull him back to his feet, readying herself to apologise for acting rashly when she catches the overwhelming look of pity he is offering her.

“What happened?”

Melinda is in no mood for games, her glare only intensifying as both men remain silent. She turns to Hensley, knowing that he’s going to be much easier to crack than Agent Norwood, and stares him down.

It takes all of forty two seconds.

“We received communication from Headquarters. A message for you from Agent Fury.”

He looks so shaken, but she’ll not hesitate to back him against the wall and force the information out of him if he doesn’t give it to her now.

“Agent Coulson was injured three days ago on a mission in Buenos Aires. They’re sending him back to New York for treatment as soon as he’s stable. The Director has authorised for you to have a week’s leave when we get back.”

Melinda stays still, stoic, doesn’t flinch when Agent Norwood gives her what he considers to be a comforting pat on the shoulder.

“I understand that he’s a close friend. But the mission always comes first. I trust you won’t be distracted.”

She grits her teeth, clenches her fists and nods, just once.

“Yes, sir.”

She turns her back to them and takes her post in the seat by the window, trying her best to conceal the way her hands are trembling as they settle on the scope. Swallowing, she squares her shoulders, evens out her breathing and tries to calm her mind. Serious injuries were bound to happen sooner or later.

Melinda has worked with at least seven agents in the past two years that were later killed in action.

She doesn’t want to think that Coulson could make that number eight.

 

* * *

 

Melinda doesn't protest when Peggy insists on having someone chauffeur her from D.C. to New York. Flying there using one of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s private planes would have taken three less hours, but in this moment she doesn't trust herself in the pilot’s seat.

She'd barely slept a wink on the flight back from Singapore, passing the time by counting the seconds that had gone by each time Hensley let out a loud snore. Truth be told she’s barely slept since hearing the news; it had taken all of her focus to concentrate on the mission which had ended with a bullet in the head of their mark.

At least now in the darkened back seat of the fancy car that had picked her up from the airfield, she has an opportunity to let her mind rest. She had gotten the chance to speak with Peggy through the phone at the base when they landed. Her former supervising officer’s voice was soothing, especially now, and especially when delivering somewhat good news.

“Agent Coulson is recovering well. There were slight complications during the operation last week, but our medical team is the best the world has to offer.”

She's relieved.

But she also has to see him for herself. Just to make sure.

She’d felt sadness at the death of her colleagues, but she understood the risks of their jobs, and that their deaths happened to prevent worse tragedies.

But Coulson, he's her friend.

Hearing that he’s hurt… it feels different.

She can’t explain it.

 

* * *

 

Melinda hates hospitals.

They reek of an unnatural cleanliness, every surface scrubbed thoroughly with bleach and other chemicals to clear away the bloodstains and other messes made by patients and visitors. The doctors and nurses and other medical personnel never seem to stop hurrying around from one emergency to another, and she thinks that being in a place like that for an extended period of time would just be enough to drive a perfectly sane man crazy.

S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medical facilities are a step up.

Barely.

The staff are less persistent with offering their sympathies - asking "how you are", and more insistent on checking your clearance level before letting you through the door. She flashes her badge and lets them pat her down before being lead through a metal detector where she begrudgingly surrenders her gun.

She wishes she hadn't.

If Coulson is fine and dandy she might just shoot him for putting her through the stress of worrying about him being injured. She'll aim for a non vital area of course, enough to hurt but not to fatally maim. And there'll be doctors right around the corner who can save his ass; she can even have one hand on the trigger and the other hovering over the emergency button if it comes down to it.

Not a bad plan.

She doesn't have the opportunity to follow through with it though - logically she knows that if he's still at a medical facility nearly two weeks after being injured, there is no way his wounds were not serious.

The receptionist at the front desk, situated past the armed guards, directs her up to the fifth floor and she hurries past, taking the stairs two at a time because she has had experiences with the incredibly slow moving elevators at other S.H.I.E.L.D. bases in the past.

Coulson isn't alone when she reaches his room.

He's in a sitting position, propped up by a mound of pillows, eyes closed, a furrow in his brow. There's a nurse fiddling around with the monitors he's hooked up to, and a quick glance shows her that his heart rate at least is steady.

“We’ve just given him a higher dosage of meds to help him sleep for the evenin’; he's been complainin’ about the pain,” the nurse says as she turns around, smiling widely at Melinda, who can only nod in response.

“It's nice to see you here. Poor Phil hasn't had many visitors since he got here,” she continues, moving to close the blinds. “Well, I'll leave you two to it then. If y’all need anything, just push the button.”

Melinda forces a smile, giving the friendly nurse a once over. “Melanie” seemed nice enough; not pushy, a quality she could appreciate.

“Just once. The button. Just press it once. We’re right down the hall. Slammin’ on it till it breaks ain't gonna make us move any faster. Standard protocol to give you this speech I'm afraid - field agents and specialists; y’all are impatient folk.”

She leaves with that, slipping quietly out of the room and shutting the door behind her, leaving Melinda alone in the room with a visibly unconscious Phil Coulson. With a silent sigh, she scans the room, gaze settling on an empty chair that she moves over to the side of the bed before sitting down.

The plastic seat is uncomfortable, but right now is the first time she's felt anything remotely related to peace, and she’ll take what she can get.

Melinda watches Coulson in his half slumber, sees the way he frowns, clearly in discomfort, and rises from her seat to put a hand gently on his shoulder, her attempt at calming him. She holds her breath as his eyes slowly open, and is genuinely surprised to see the smile forming on his face as he blinks up at her.

“Melinda Maaayyyyy,” he says, dragging out the one syllable in her last name, looking especially pleased at himself as he does so. She refrains from snatching her hand back when his moves to grab it, holding it between both of his warm palms.

“Good to see you don't have amnesia, Coulson.”

She's slightly shocked as he pouts - it's definitely an expression that she is unfamiliar with, especially on him. It's kind of cute; he resembles a sad puppy as he stares at her with wide eyes and bottom lip jutting out.

“Why do you always call me Coulson? My name is Phillllll.”

She snorts at this, rolling her eyes. He tugs at her hand, turning it over and interlocking their fingers. She should pull away now, but he’s injured and high as a kite, so she just lets him do what he may.

“You've always been Coulson. Just like I've always been May.”

Melinda smiles as Phil vehemently shakes his head; she imagines the action must be painful because there is a bandage wrapped right around, matting his hair, causing it to stick out at all angles.

“Nuh uh,” he retorts in a manner reminiscent of the five year olds back in Kindergarten, before pointing to his head and giggling to himself. “You’re Melinda. Up here.”

He taps his head a few more times before suddenly adopting an alarmed expression and bringing his finger to his lips. “Shhhh,” he tells her in a loud whisper. “There are noises.”

She shakes her head softly, unable to help yet another smile forming at his utter ridiculousness.

“You okay Coulson?”

He pouts again.

“It's Phil.”

Sighing, she decided to humour him. Just this once.

“Alright. are you okay, Phil?”

He beams at her for just a moment, before shaking his head and looking sadly down at his own body. He moves his hand, and by extension, her’s, over to where his injury must have been.

“It hurts. Right here.”

Peggy had glossed over the details of Coulson... no, Phil’s injury. Her hand is hovering right above the wound, being pressed gently against it through layers of blankets and bandages by Coulson.

“What happened?”

She splays her hand gently open over his midsection, careful not to put any weight down on him, despite the fact that his hand is pressing insistently against hers.

“Argentina. Loud. Guns. Boom. Hole in me. Hurts.”

He's growing less and less coherent, his eyes clouding over, still the same pained expression across his features.

“Saved the llama. Where's my llama? Hurts.”

Melinda is now definitely sure that he's not going to hold up well under torture. He probably passed that course with the bare minimum marks.

“Melinda. Hurts.”

She moves her other hand to his head, her fingers curling gently into his hair and her thumb rubbing slow circles into his temples through the bandage.

“I know.”

She continues her motions until he grows lax and slowly drifts off into an uneasy morphine induced sleep. His hand is still wrapped around hers, grip not loosening even while unconscious - in fact it tightens as she tries to extract her fingers from between his. It takes an entire minute of careful wiggling to reclaim ownership of her hand, and once she does, his frown appears to deepen.

With a soft sigh, she reaches over and gently smooths out the creases in his forehead, a strange warmth spreading through her as his lips turn up in his sleep. She fixes his blanket around him, making sure he's as comfortable as one can be with a serious injury, and moves her chair back to its original position.

She glances over at him just once more before moving to exit the room, pulling the door silently shut behind her.

The same nurse from before, Melanie, is sitting at the counter at the end of the hallway, and has much too cheery a demeanour for someone who works with sick and injured people all day long.

“Didn't think I'd be seeing you leave tonight. Most of y’all fight me tooth and nail when I try to send ya home for the evenin’.”

Melinda almost snorts at the implication that she and Coulson are a couple. The notion is absolutely ridiculous. As much as she wants to sit vigil by his bedside, she's hardly rested since he was injured, and she'll be damned if she spends the next week of her break sleeping in a hospital chair and killing her back.

“He kept mentioning a llama. I wanted to know if he sustained any serious head injuries; I saw the bandage.”

The nurse clucks in sympathy, nodding eagerly.

“He just had a nasty collision with the floor after he was shot. Nothing serious. I'm not sure about the llama; we do have his personal items stored away if y’all want them back now.”

Melinda shakes her head, offering the overly helpful nurse a quick thank you before making a hasty escape.

She has no desire to spend more time than necessary in this place. Now that she knows that Coulson is stable, the adrenaline rush that had powered her through her mission and journey back is wearing thin; she's pretty sure her body is going to give out on her if she doesn't let it rest soon.

She runs through possibly temporary housing options in her mind, hotel - too pricey if she wants to stay in the city; motel - run down and dilapidated; S.H.I.E.L.D base - bunking with other agents and sharing a communal shower, before remembering that she knows Coulson’s apartment address.

It's entirely his fault that she's in the city; though really, she can't blame him for getting shot, but she might as well take advantage of his empty apartment while she's here.

Plus, he's been to her place, it's only fair that she gets to visit his.

She wonders how much Captain America memorabilia he has on display.

* * *

 

Phil feels like death when the nurses shake him awake in the morning in order to check his wound, change his bandages and re-administer his pain medication. He's been so groggy and drugged up since he arrived in New York that all he does is alternate between states of euphoria,  depression and immense pain.

He can hardly remember anything that occurred after the moment he went down.

He saw things, talked to strange people; at this point he isn't sure what was real and what was a drug induced hallucination.

It's a little better now. Not the pain; everything still burns, but they've been lowering the amount and frequency of his meds in an effort to have him conscious for longer periods of time before he's discharged tomorrow. They've also forced him out of bed several times a day in an attempt to get him back on his feet faster. He appreciates their efforts, he really does.

But it's painful beyond belief.

Phil isn't looking forward to recovering alone in an empty apartment. If he didn't abhor staying in hospitals so much, he might just beg to stay. He knows they wouldn't let him go if he couldn't handle it, but that thought isn't any more comforting. He can take care of himself, but he imagines it would be so much better if he had someone there for him.

He tries not to grimace as the nurse on call checks him, poking and prodding before forcing him to sit up. At least she had made the effort to fluff his pillows; he's really digging hard to try and stay positive in his current condition. The nurse tending to his bandages moves aside when her colleague enters - this one he thinks he recognises, she's been in charge of his care since he was transferred here.

“Good Mornin’ Phil,” she chirps as she bustles into the room, heading straight to fiddle with his monitor before pulling open the blinds, sunlight streaming into the room.

“Nice to see you looking better.”

He sits silently as they move about, assuming they have this routine down at this stage.

“You're a lot friendlier when we’ve got you on the jiggle juice.”

He can feel his face growing red at her revelations. He's seen agents act all loopy when they're drugged up - he hadn't anticipated being one of them. He opens his mouth to ask if he's done anything embarrassing before deciding against it.

He'd probably end up so mortified he'd never make eye contact with them again.

“I'm sure he’ll cheer up real good when his girl gets here.”

He zones out as the two women begin to converse, mind focused on only one thing.  _ His girl?  _ What girl? A woman had evidently been by to see him; he can't imagine who. He knows Fury has dropped by once, he had been semi-conscious at the time and listened to a long ass lecture about getting himself killed so early. There are a bunch of hideous flowers by his bedside with a card signed by several agents he’s worked with in the past. No women though.

He's about to seriously begin narrowing down the possible candidates for his mystery female visitor when one of the nurses pats him on the shoulder with an “Oh look, here she is now. That oughtta get a smile outta you.”

Phil is nervous, almost apprehensive as he looks up to see Melinda May standing in the doorway, a familiar and comforting smile on her face. He hasn't seen it enough lately, but he has fond memories from the short time they spent together during their Academy days where she would offer him a real genuine smile.

He cannot believe she is here; it's possible what he thought to be hallucinations were just hazy memories, not that he can recall any of them. He just wishes he hadn't said anything stupid in front of her.

“We’ll get ourselves outta your hair. Push the button if you need us.”

Phil wonders if it's just that his brain is working very slowly after being mostly unconscious for an extended period of time, because two blinks later the room is empty, and May has made her way over to sit on the edge of his bed.

“You look better,” she tells him, hands folded in her lap. He has a million questions he wants to ask, all of which he is afraid to hear the answer to. He has a feeling he won’t have to ask for her to tell him, so he goes for the obvious response.

“I don’t feel better.”

She laughs, and he knows that he’s done for.

“When I got here four days ago you were so out of it. You grabbed my hand, begged me to call you Phil and wouldn’t stop asking about your llama. Trust me, you’re doing much better now.”

He covers his face with both hands and groans, wishing he could just disappear. Knowing May, she’ll never let this go, forever holding onto these memories just for the sake of making fun of him for it.

Still she’s here for him now when no one else is, and he’s happy to be teased if it means being in her company. He’s also too busy focusing on his embarrassing displays that it takes him a minute or two to comprehend all she had actually said to him - she’d been here for four days.

In New York.

Because he’d gotten himself shot.

He doesn’t know how to feel about it; not the getting shot part - that had undoubtedly sucked the life out of him, both literally and metaphorically. He doesn’t know how to react to the fact that May had come all the way to see him; to support him in his time of need.

He knows that they are somewhat friends…

This feels like something more.

“How did you manage to score so much time off?” he asks her, as casually as he can manage. She raises a brow at him and he knows that he’s failed miserably.

“Peggy authorised for me to take a week off after my mission in Singapore when she heard you had gotten injured. Fury was worried you wouldn’t have anyone to watch your back when you were down.”

He’s touched. Also a little wounded that Fury thinks that he has no friends. He has people that he hangs out with… occasionally. Garrett and Sitwell had both signed the ugly card on his “Get Well Soon” flowers.

“So this is your mission? Watching my back?” he tries to joke, part of him desperately clinging to the shred of hope that she had come to see him because she cared enough about him to mourn if he were to be killed in action.

“Mission ended last week when I put a bullet through a bad man’s head. Came close to putting a bullet through my partner’s head too.”

They manage to share a laugh at that, though hers is punctuated with an eyeroll.

“I’m on leave so I can keep an eye on you. But I would have done it anyway,” she tells him, reaching out and patting his hand. May isn’t one for gestures of affection, so the fact that she had initiated physical contact is enough to show him that she really does care.

It’s kind of nice.

“I hate hospitals. But I don’t want to leave either. What if I tear open my stitches and bleed all over my bathroom floor and die there?”

Phil realises that he’s being a tad dramatic with his statements, but to be fair, he still has lord knows how much drugs coursing through his system - not enough to knock him out or block all the pain, but enough to affect his senses and definitely his personality. May just glares at him, smacking him none too lightly on the arm, away from any seriously injured areas.

“I didn’t come all this way just to let you die on my watch. And they wouldn’t be letting you go home tomorrow if you were doing that badly.”

Tomorrow. Phil knows all of this. He knows the limitations of his injuries and the kind of recovery he should be expecting, the things he’ll need to do to keep things healing smoothly. He’s only got one more day here until he has to return to an empty apartment and fend for himself for however long it takes him to recover. He’s completely aware that he’s acting a little like a child at the moment, but in his defense a bullet had gone right through his abdomen just over two weeks ago.

He could have died.

It’s just another part of the job, but now that he knows how that feels, he doesn’t exactly want to repeat the experience if it can be avoided. If he’s dying at the hands of an evil supervillain, sure, but not because he’s accidentally ripped his stitches trying to reach for a glass of water in the kitchen. He doesn’t have anyone to depend on though - he hasn’t for so long. It’s something he’s used to, it’s something he has to live with. And so he puts on a brave face and gives May the best smile he can muster up.

“I’m okay.”

May just shakes her head softly and shuffles closer to him on the bed, her hand outstretched. He’s curious about what she means to do when she traces the edges of his bandage with her fingertips and looks up into his eyes, an expression he can’t quite yet decipher upon her face.

“You’re not okay. But you will be.”

Her words bring upon a whole slew of new emotions for him to process, and he’s almost glad when she rises from his bedside so he can do so alone. He doesn’t quite have the control that she has. He’s afraid that he might break down and everything he feels out into the open; he’s not quite ready for that yet.

“Get some rest. I’ll be back to check on you later.”

He watches her leave, eyes trained on her retreating figure. She’s halfway out the door when she turns back to him, giving him the same smile that made him feel only warmth.

“Don’t worry, Phil,” she tells him. “I’ve got you.”


	6. VI

The night she arrives in New York, Melinda is mostly relieved, yet a tiny bit disappointed that it takes her all of twenty two seconds to pick the lock at Coulson’s apartment and let herself in. She makes a point to case all possible entries and escape routes; the bathroom window is a tight squeeze, but if she can slip through, so could a tiny foreign assassin. She reminds herself to report back to Headquarters that they need reinforced locks on SHIELD issued apartments - she’d installed her own, but it was apparent that not everyone was as vigilant.

She explores the entire apartment slowly, taking the time to learn more about Phil Coulson through the space he spent his down time in.

The whole place is almost obsessively clean, all the furniture perfectly aligned, nothing even a hair out of place. His fridge is completely empty - that she’s not surprised by. He’s definitely the type to buy his ingredients fresh and use them before they have a chance to expire. The kitchen pantry however is fully stocked - she’s pretty sure that all the boxes and tins have been sorted in alphabetical order. She scans the selection he has, lingering on the letter  _ T  _ and frowns when she sees a familiar package on the bottom shelf.

It’s her favourite brand.

She pulls the box out and turns it in her hands. The seal is still intact; it’s unopened. But the expiry date is only a month away and based on her knowledge of the shelf life of packaged tea, he’s probably had it since the beginning of the year. Since after their last mission together… he had bought it for her.

Honestly, she doesn’t know how to feel about that, frowning as she sets the box onto the countertop. If it was for her, she might as well put them to good use. A cup of hot tea is definitely what she needs if she wants to get any sleep tonight; she’s beyond exhausted but there are too many things in her mind for her to just drift off.

Melinda makes her way to the small living area, running her fingers along the back of the arm chair where she had dumped her bag earlier. There is a record collection neatly stacked beside one of those old vinyl players and a shelf full of worn books standing opposite, both classics and comic books. She’s not surprised; they might not know each other as well as she’d like… but she knows enough about his little quirks from the time they’ve spent together.

She grabs her bag, slinging it over her shoulder as she makes her way back through to his bedroom, dropping it by the foot of his bed. His bedroom is much more cluttered than the rest of his home; two framed posters of Captain America hanging on one wall and an entire case of his collectibles by his desk. There are two levels dedicated to Captain America alone and she smiles at the two familiar cards he has sitting next to a model of their nation’s most famous hero.

On his desk there’s a framed photo of what can only be a young Phil and his parents; the very image of a happy family, before life did what it does best and tore everything apart. Stretching her hand out, she runs a gentle finger over the edge of the frame before moving on to explore the rest of his bedroom. She spends a good five minutes opening and closing doors, audibly laughing when she sees his Captain America boxers tucked away to one side of his underwear drawer. It isn’t creepy at all that she’s snooping around a man’s apartment and going through his undergarments - she is just familiarising herself with the space, so she can support him to the best of her ability when he’s discharged later in the week.  

Once she’s satisfied that she knows where everything is located; she grabs a spare change of clothes from her bag and a spare towel from his cupboard, making her way to the bathroom. She crosses her fingers that the heating system here is as good as the one back home, because there is nothing worse than a lukewarm shower at the end of a very long day, or in her case, the longest week of her life to date. She deposits her belongings on one side of the bathroom counter, before stripping down to her underwear and checking her body for injuries. They’d been intent on sniping their mark; it was cleaner, made for an easier exit, but plans had changed as they often did, and she’d been sent in to take him out.

She’d been sent flying through a window by two burly bodyguards and there are small cuts all along her right side.

Melinda grimaces as she turns and inspects the dark bruises littering her back in the mirror, similar in colour to the ones that decorated her ribs. She isn’t looking forward to tomorrow morning; she’ll be sore for a week but the morning after is always the worst.

With a heavy sigh, she opens up the medicine cabinet; knowing Coulson it will be well stocked, full of bandages, antiseptic creams and ointments for her wounds. There are several packages of non-prescription painkillers, along with a half empty bottle of sleeping pills. She remembers the night terrors he had woken with earlier in the year, knew that he had had trouble sleeping after a mission gone wrong. She knows now that an agent had died and guesses that Phil blames himself for it.

It’s in his personality to do so.

She wonders if she’s too emotionally detached… it’s probably for the best, in their line of work, anything can happen at any time. Two inches to the left and the extraction team arriving three minutes later would have left Coulson in a morgue, rather than a hospital recovery room. She shakes the morbid thoughts from her mind as she retrieves a roll of wrap for her ankle; she’s pretty sure she sprained it but her boots had kept it supported until she took them off at the door. Knowing how obsessively clean Coulson seemed to be, she didn’t think he’d appreciate her trekking dust all over his floors.

The cuts from the glass are relatively minor; they’re covered in dried blood and she knows that it’ll sting like a bitch when she showers, but she’s going to use up his entire supply of bandages if she tapes them all up. The salve will work just fine on its own to soothe her cuts and prevent infection. She’s about to close up the cabinet when she spots a box of condoms tucked neatly away in the corner of the bottom shelf, snorting to herself as she reads the label.

_ X-tra Large _

Well he definitely wasn’t flattering himself with his choice in size, but that was really none of her business. She sets the bandage wrap and cream on the counter as well, reaching over to turn on the water, letting it heat up as she retrieves her discarded clothes, folding them onto a neat pile on top of the closed toilet lid.

Melinda actually lets out a sigh of relief as she steps under the water, feeling the heat soothe the aches in her body, tilting her head back to wet her hair. She’s thankful for the bottle of shampoo he has; actually uses it on her entire body because he only has the one bar of soap and she doesn’t even want to imagine where it’s been used.

She towels off quickly when she is done, wringing the water from her hair and wrapping the towel around her head to stop it from dripping everywhere as she gets dressed. While she manages to have herself fully clothed within two minutes, patching up her injuries takes time. The cream is cool against her heated skin and alleviates the persistent sting of her cuts, bringing relief. The bandage around her ankle does the opposite. It feels like her circulation is being cut off, despite how much care she had taken to wrap it loosely.

It’s been tiring.

The exhaustion is catching up to her.

Limping out of the bathroom, she dumps her dirty clothes into one compartment of her bag and makes her way to the kitchen, filling the kettle with water and setting in on the stove top to heat up. Ten minutes later she’s curled up on the couch with a cup of hot tea in one hand and an old Captain America comic in the other.

She wonders how Peggy feels about being immortalised in art form.

Melinda is drowsy by the time her tea is finished and she returns the comic to it’s correct place in the shelf, knowing that Coulson will definitely notice if she doesn’t, before ditching her cup in the sink. For a moment, she considers just sleeping on the couch, but there’s a perfectly good bed in the next room that no one is using. She feels a little like Goldilocks, but she doesn’t think Coulson will mind if she takes over his apartment for a little while; she’s here for him anyway.

The room is quiet, the bed soft and warm as she crawls in beneath the covers; lulling her into a gentle slumber. She falls asleep with her face buried into the pillow, a comforting scent overwhelming all her senses.

It feels like safety.

 

* * *

 

Phil is both pleased and annoyed when he returns to his room after his scheduled four laps of the ward with one of the cheery nurses. Melinda May is sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed and she’s pilfered the jello cup from his lunch tray.

He’d been looking forward to that. He tells her so.

She rolls her eyes and shuffles over closer to his pillow so he can sit down beside her.

“It tastes awful.”

“I know.”

They grin at one another and she pats him none too gently on the shoulder as she moves to her feet.

“Come on Coulson, go get changed. I’ll grab your things and we can get your ass home.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever heard words sweeter than these.  


 

* * *

 

Phil wakes up to the smell of burning.

He sits up in alarm - or at least tries to, before a searing pain in his abdomen has him letting out a loud shout and collapsing back down onto the bed, his head hitting the pillows; an inch from slamming into the headboard. It takes all of ten seconds before the door to his room flies open, Melinda rushing in towards him. She sits down on the side of the bed and runs a cool hand over his warm forehead.

“I heard you cry out…” she tells him, frowning. “Are you alright?”

He finds himself unable to speak, just panting and trying to catch his breath. He feels like he’s burning, like his entire midsection is on fire. Her frown deepens as she pulls away the bed covers and quickly unbuttons his pajama shirt, pulling it apart to check on his injury. He groans as she lifts the bandages, gently probing the edges of his wound to check if he’s done any further damage.

“I smelt something. Tried to sit up,” he manages to wheeze out and she sighs audibly, taping the bandage back into place before buttoning his shirt back up and tucking the covers back around him.

“I was trying to make dinner,” she confesses, glaring at him when he laughs, her expression of annoyance quickly changing to concern when he lets out a grunt of pain.

“I’ve had enough near death experiences this month,” he jokes, and if he weren’t so pathetically confined to his bed, she’d punch him for his ill-timed joke. He sniffs the air again and frowns. “Did you burn down my entire kitchen?”

“You might need a new toaster,” she says, shrugging, and he’s not even mad at this point. He’s just happy that she’s there beside him and completely honoured that she would even try to enter the kitchen to keep him from starving to death.

She gives him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder before reaching past him to his bedside table, grabbing the glass of water she had set there earlier, along with two tablets.

“Take your pain meds and get some rest. I’ll order takeout.”

She watches him carefully as he swallows the pills, downing each with a mouthful of water, and takes the half empty glass from him when he’s done.

“Can you get it from the diner on the corner two blocks away,” he mumbles as his eyes begin to flutter shut, and before she has a chance to ask him which diner, or what he even wants, he’s fallen asleep.

Looks like she’ll get the chance to explore the city tonight; she does owe it to Coulson - his toaster is damaged beyond repair.

 

* * *

 

When Phil next awakens, he's pulled out of his slumber much more gently, a hand on his shoulder shaking him, bringing him slowly back to consciousness. He's a little drowsy, a little groggy; the pain meds his doctors had prescribed were strong and it takes him a few moments before he even gets his eyes open.

Melinda’s face is hovering inches above his; she has one hand on his forehead again and her hair is tickling the side of his face. He wrinkles his nose at the sensation and tries to lift a hand to brush it away, only to remember he’s trapped beneath the covers. She seems to realise what he’s trying to do and pulls back, glaring at him.

The glare stays in place as she forces him to sit up, roughly enough to make him feel pain, but with enough care to not cause any permanent damage. She checks that he’s conscious enough to stand before pulling him out of bed and into the bathroom. In his dazed state, he doesn’t quite realise what she’s doing until he’s sitting on a little stool he’s pretty sure came from the kitchen, dressed in only his boxers. He tries to sit still as she runs a damp wash cloth over his body, but finds himself squirming at her touch.

“Stop. Moving.”

Her brows are furrowed as she finishes cleaning him off, running the cloth under hot water and wringing it out before returning to his side.

“Now, do you need my help for this part, or should I go and reheat dinner,” she asks him in a tone that he’s sure means she’s teasing him, as she holds the towel above his crotch with a smirk. He snatches it from her clutch as his face reddens and she just laughs as she leaves the room to give him a little privacy.

“Please don’t blow up my microwave as well.”

 

* * *

 

“Wanna tell me why you were so grumpy earlier?” he asks her later that evening, when dinner is done and he’s back in bed. The food had been satisfying enough, despite Melinda stealing most of his hotcakes and giving him her share of the fruit salad. She’d also only allowed him to have chicken while she had his favourite; steak and mash. The logical part of him knows that she’s just doing what the nurses had told her to, but he can’t help but think that she’d ordered his favourite foods just to tease him, letting him look but not eat.

She’s lucky that he has some self control. And no way of tackling her in his current state.

His injury is hurting again, but he doesn’t want to spend the entire time she is here drugged up and barely conscious, so he hides it best as he can, trying to keep a neutral expression on his face as he shifts uncomfortably against his pillows.

He’s not fooling anyone.

“Take your meds, Coulson,” she says with a sigh, looking pointedly over to the pills and water she has once again set out on his bedside table.

“Tell me why you’re so grumpy and I’ll take them.”

She frowns at him, clenching her jaw. People could be such children when they were sick or injured.

“I don’t relish the thought of you getting yourself killed,” she admits after a long pause and an uncomfortable silence settles over them. She folds her hands in her lap and looks everywhere but at him. Sighing in resignation, he takes his pills without any more fuss and she can see the moment they start to take effect, his eyes glazing over, grimace morphing into a smile. He stares up at her; his expression almost unsettling. She can’t quite place her finger on it, but it makes her feel both hot and cold at the same time.

“Can I please have my llama,” he asks after a moment, she smiles, shaking her head softly at him.

Melinda turns to his desk, picking up the strange clay figurine he’d been persistently asking for since she first spoke to him at the hospital close to a week ago. She sits down on the bed beside him and carefully presses it into his hands, frowning when he hands it back to her.

“I thought you wanted your llama.”

“It’s for you.”

Her mouth opens a little in surprise as she studies it, turning it carefully in her hands. It’s delicate, hand-made… her expression softens when she realises he must have gotten it on his last mission - he’d been in Argentina… it had been all he was asking for at the hospital. This stupid little llama.

And he’d bought it for her.

There’s a strange, not quite uncomfortable feeling, in the pit of her stomach. They were friends now - she’s sitting at his bedside taking care of him this very moment. She’s not sure how far she wants to let things go before they can’t turn back. Phil… he’s a good man, a good agent. But that is the very root of the problem, the fact that they’re agents.

They have each other’s backs.

They can’t let anything else cloud their judgement out in the field; it’s too risky, too dangerous.

But this… it’s just a harmless gift.

“Thank you,” she tells him finally, laying her hand over his and giving it a gentle squeeze.

He smiles like he’s seeing the sun for the first time after a lifetime of rainy days.

“It’s for your birthday next week,” he murmurs, she shakes her head softly at him.

Of course he had remembered.

She’s touched but also confused, unsure of how to proceed. She needs space, time to think.

“You should get some sleep,” she tells him instead, setting the llama back on his desk behind her. She’ll take it with her when she leaves; she’d hate to disappoint him by turning down his gift.

“What about you?” he asks, blinking sleepily up at her. She’s not sure he’s going to be able to keep his eyes open for very much longer.

“I’m going to crash on the couch,” she replies, moving over to smooth the covers down around him once more, freezing when he reaches for her, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. She could shake him off in the blink of an eye and leave the room, but she doesn’t want to.

“Stay here,” he manages to mumble before his eyes flutter shut.

She could spend the night freezing on the mildly uncomfortable couch, waking up with a crick in her neck and pains in her back; or she could crawl into bed next to her injured… friend. With a sigh, she moves to turn off the lights, closing the door and shrouding the room in complete darkness. Standing at the foot of the bed, she deliberates for just a moment longer before moving over to the left side, lifting the covers and slipping beneath them, beside Coulson... Phil… who is already fast asleep.

Sleeping here is the logical choice, she tries to tell herself. She’s right next to him if he needs her in the middle of the night; she can keep an eye on him in case anything happens.

Melinda realises she’s lying to herself when she drifts closer and closer to him throughout the night, seeking the warmth emanating from his body, the comfort of having him near her.

She knows that she’s screwed when she wakes up the next morning with her head resting in the crook of his neck and her arm draped across his chest. She pulls away as fast as she can and rolls over so her back is turned towards him, mind clouding with confusing thoughts, unable to separate her inexplicable desire from her usually level headed judgement.

She misses the moment his eyes blink open and the disappointment in his features as she pulls away.

They both sigh silently, unheard by the other.

It’s probably for the best that they pretend this never happened.

Seems that they’re pretty good at doing that already.  

 

* * *

 

Melinda crawls out of bed, groaning as several of the joints in her back pop with the motion. Her hair is a mess and she’s pretty sore, but this is one way of working out her frustrations without causing irreparable damage to the gym equipment.

“Where you goin’?”

Ken’s voice is muffled by the fact that he’s lying on his face and she has half a mind to not answer him. They had fun together, but she didn’t keep him around for the conversation.

“I have work.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

This time, she does ignore him, grabbing her clothes from the floor and quickly pulling them on, barely sparing him a glance as she does so. She has no intention of spending the night here, she’s not even sure how far she wants to let this relationship go before she inevitably ends things. She’s actually surprised that it’s lasted this long, given their lack of common interests outside the bedroom.

“You wanna do this again tomorrow?”

She sighs, slinging her bag over one shoulder and heading for the door, letting it slam shut behind her. She’ll find him when she needs to relieve some stress. But for now, she has an empty apartment to return to and two hours of down time before her next mission briefing.

Melinda thinks she might drop in on Peggy - it means a free breakfast and a chance to snoop around her collection for more trading cards. She has the clay llama sitting in her desk drawer back home and she wants to return the favour for Christmas. Phil seemed like the kind of guy who loved celebrating the holidays.

She’s sure he’ll appreciate the sentiment.

 

* * *

 

Recovering from a bullet wound sucks.

It’s not worse than getting shot, but it’s a pretty close second.

He spends weeks in physiotherapy getting his strength back - it’s painful but less painful than the lonely evenings in his apartment, trying to find things to do to pass the time. He rereads the entire contents of his bookshelf twice and tinkers around with his old collectibles for hours on end, swapping out gears and screws, disassembling and reassembling them for no reason other than to occupy his idle hands.

When he lies awake in bed at night, clinging to a fading scent he couldn’t quite put his finger on, one that somehow still lingers on his pillows, he wonders if he’s always been this lonely. He supposes his normal life is so much more active, filled with adventure and excitement, but when that is taken away, all he’s left with is an empty apartment and no one to lean on.

Phil folds his arms across his chest and huffs up to the empty ceiling.

He has friends.

He  _ definitely  _ has friends.

 

* * *

 

Phil is sent off to England for his first mission back after his injury. His colleagues on base had welcomed him back with a cheesy gift basket when he returned to work four weeks before that; stuck on desk duty until a physical exam cleared him to go back into the field.

He doesn’t quite realise how much he’s missed it until he’s strapped in on the flight out to London with a team of other field agents and specialists to monitor possible alien activity. There’s a ninety percent chance it’s a hoax cooked up by some Doctor Who fanatics who are convinced that there’s a blue telephone box disappearing and reappearing around the city, but they have to go and check it out anyway, just in case.

Phil is all too aware that he’s part of this team only to monitor from behind the lines - he’s mostly recovered from his ordeal in Argentina, but he’s still not back at the top of his game yet, and they have specialists to handle the situation if things go south and they end up attacked by an extraterrestrial being.

He has a day and a half of down time when they touch down in London and spends it exploring the city, seeing the sights. He loves seeing the cultural differences in every place he has the opportunity to visit and relishes these experiences, knowing that he’s lucky to have the chance to fly all around the world. Sure, he could have chosen a safer profession, but what better way to see the world, than to save it at the same time.

 

* * *

 

The mission is a bust, just like they had anticipated from the moment it was called in.

Phil doesn’t know the fine details, but S.H.I.E.L.D. has turned over at least a dozen troublemakers to the local authorities; they’d wasted resources and jet fuel to fly out here and investigate a whole load of nothing.

He spends his last few hours in the city winding his way through the back streets, hoping to discover any hidden gems he can, when he happens across an antique store and is quickly drawn in. He actually doesn’t realise he’s entered the shop until he hears the chime of the bell triggered by him pushing open the door.

He loses himself in the pocket watches, typewriters, fountain pens and miscellaneous collectibles as he explores the store, wanting nothing more than to stay here forever, or take everything back to the States with him. After much deliberation, he picks out an old metal clock; it’s broken, but he has spare parts back home he can tinker with - he’s excited to have found a new project.

The redhead at the counter, Emma, helps him wrap it up for transportation - he might hold on to it the entire flight back, just to make sure it doesn’t fly around in his suitcase. Their pilot is fairly inexperienced and their trip here had given more than one of their agents an upset stomach, so he’s not willing to risk having it stowed away at the end of the plane.

He’s halfway out the door when he pauses, turning back and eyeing the souvenirs they have on display behind the counter.

“Looking for something in particular?”

He shrugs, really unsure of how to answer. He’d received yet another signed trading card from Melinda in the mail just before Christmas and he wants to get her something in return. He knows she isn’t the sentimental type, heck he’s pretty sure she’s already disposed of the llama, but it’s the thought that counts and he…

He thinks of her often.

Maybe a little too often.

“Shopping for a special someone?”

He inhales sharply at the words, scratching the back of his head wit his free hand, clueless as how to respond. Melinda was a someone… and she was certainly special. They were friends. Friends got each other gifts - he’d sent both Garrett and Sitwell cheap booze for their respective birthdays. They’d tried to hire him a fourth of July themed stripper last year, so some friends they were.

So yes. Melinda is a friend. But she’s different.

Clearly he gives Emma the wrong impression because she’s hauling him over to look at all the accessories they have on offer; bracelets, necklaces and - he swallows nervously at this - rings. She prattles on about the historical significance of each piece while he slowly backs away, heading to where he saw the tacky fridge magnets earlier. He picks one that has the union jack as a background, capital letters pronouncing “I Love London”, and quickly hands it over, thanking her for her assistance.

She gives him the most judgmental look and he doesn’t want to know what she’s thinking. Of course, he doesn’t want to stop and explain either because his relationship, if you could call it that, with Melinda, can’t exactly be described in words. Especially since he himself has no idea what they have.

So he just smiles awkwardly as she packages it for him, shifting from foot to foot as he waits. The second she is done, he hands over the correct change, bids her a good day and makes a run for it.

 

* * *

 

Over-romanticised in novels, the life of a spy is apparently filled with mystery, intrigue and betrayal. It’s not necessarily untrue.

Backstabbing is not uncommon in their line of work.

Melinda just doesn’t anticipate it’ll happen quite so literally.

One minute she’s tailing her mark through the streets of Paris and the next there’s a searing pain in her back, their contact is trying to end her life. What results is a bloody battle that leaves S.H.I.E.L.D.’s clean up crew another mangled body to dispose of and Melinda trying to hobble her way back to the safehouse without alerting random civilians to the fact that there’s a knife sticking out of her back.

She’d have pulled it out, but she’s not quite sure what internal organs it may have hit and she doesn’t want to risk bleeding out in an unfamiliar city, thousands of miles from home.

Her mother would save her life just to kill her again for making a mistake so foolish.

It takes her close to an hour to make her way back and she’s close to unconscious by then. Her commanding officer looks at her like she’s insane and one of the field agents just manages to catch her before she passes out.

Her last thought before everything fades to black is that she has really let Phil down.

 

* * *

 

Phil is a fan of undercover work. It gives him the opportunity to put on a different persona, to play a character. It’s especially rewarding when said persona is wealthy and he gets to enjoy all the perks that come with having money.

He is not, however, a fan of sudden changes. He’d spent weeks perfecting his cover, planning out the details of this op, preparing what he was going to say to Melinda the moment he saw her. He hadn’t seen her since she helped take care of him after he was injured which had been almost half a year ago. He’d never gotten the chance to thank her properly in person… he’d still been a little drugged up when she’d left. He hadn’t been able to clearly express all he had wanted to say. That was supposed to have been his chance.

She’d sent him a postcard from Germany several weeks back, to let him know she’d received the souvenir he’d bought for her in London and that Peggy had laughed for a good five minutes after seeing it. He’d been both happy and also mildly embarrassed at the prospect of the infamous Peggy Carter getting a laugh out of his gift to Melinda. He was also the tiniest bit proud that she’d seen it, flattered that Melinda would show it to her at all.

Phil had really been looking forward to spending a week in Japan, cosying up to the head of a corporation that they suspected were smuggling weapons to the United States. Well, he’d actually been looking forward to the food they would be serving. But most of all, he had been excited about the prospect of working with Melinda again.

They made a good team.

Sure, they’d had pretty disastrous missions together, but they always pulled through in the end, and that had to mean something.

He’s gutted when he turns up to the mission briefing and Agent Feng is there instead. He doesn’t have an issue with her per se, she’s Level Two like him and respected by most of the agents that she’s worked with. She’s someone that he can depend on to watch his back, someone he’ll have no trouble going undercover with.

But she’s no Melinda.

He’s afraid to find out why she’s been replaced, too scared to ask because he knows no matter the answer, he won’t like it. What if she’d asked to be taken off the case, not wanting to work with him again after the weirdness of their last interaction. He hadn’t been himself, but that was no excuse.

When he finds out she’d been taken off the case due to an injury, his first reaction is relief. It’s not the correct response to have, learning a friend is hurt, but it means that she isn’t angry at him... hopefully He can’t help but feel a weight lift off his chest. This lasts for less than a minute, because all he can imagine for days afterwards is her dying.

It’s horribly morbid of him.

He sees her crumpled body, thrown off a building, pictures her battered and bruised and unmoving.

His hands tremble on the whole flight out to Japan.

 

* * *

 

There’s sushi and sake and spying and truth be told, Phil barely remembers a moment of it.

He’s lucky that he and Agent Feng were only there to be the distractions, because he’d been preoccupied during the entire mission. They had not taken the liberty to update him on Melinda’s condition - and why would they, who was he to her? It still didn’t stop him from fretting over it.

His constant worry had annoyed Agent Feng to the point where she’d altered their cover’s itinerary and forced him out of the hotel for a day to help clear his mind. Armed with only a map of the city and a handful of phrases in Japanese, none of them helpful for getting directions out of locals, he sets out on the three and a half hour train journey to Kyoto.

Phil tries to take in the scenery, take in the sights. It’s early April; cherry blossom season, and many would be jealous to be in his position. Yet he cannot even pause to admire the beauty of the unfamiliar landscape around him. He’s unable to do anything but focus on the fact that they have to spend another four days here; and that’s only if things go well. He’s never wanted to head home so badly before; he just needs to know that Melinda is okay.

That’s all.

So he spends the day at a shrine in the outskirts of the city.

Everything is confusing, but he does his best to follow the instructions that he’s given, appreciating the calm around him as he prays for Melinda’s health. He closes his eyes and hopes that she is okay, that she wasn’t severely injured and if god forbid she was, that she is recovering well.

They may only be friends, coworkers that see one another several days a year, but he can’t imagine living in a world where she is gone. It’s better now he’s realised that. Somehow it feels like there is less weight on his shoulders, less pressure causing his chest to constrict with each breath he takes.

He leaves Kyoto feeling lighter, a token of good health tucked away in his pocket for Melinda. He can’t wait to hear her make fun of him for it.

 

* * *

 

Phil doesn’t know if he’s actually surprised when he gets back to the States to find out that Melinda has already been discharged from hospital. He’s one hundred percent confident in her ability to escape from the clutches of the nurses and doctors at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s medical facilities. He also knows how incredibly stubborn she is and figures she probably forced them to let her leave, rather than making her way out through the window or the vents.

Even though he only has one day on the East Coast before he needs to be in California for a mission briefing, he intends to visit her, wherever she might be.

Where, turns out to be back at her apartment in D.C.

He spends nearly thirty minutes arguing with himself over whether or not it would be a good idea to get her flowers. It’s what normal people buy other normal people when they’re recovering. But neither of them are particularly normal and he has this strange feeling that she’ll look at them with disdain and then conveniently forget to put them in water, causing them to die long before their time should be up. So he stops by the liquor store and picks her up a bottle of rum instead - at least this way his gift won’t go to waste.

And so less than four hours after he touches down back home, after more than a week and a half in Japan, he’s standing awkwardly at her front door, holding the gift he’d picked up earlier in both hands. His palms are sweaty again - he really doesn’t know why, but he’s holding on tight so the bottle won’t slip from his grip and shatter onto the ground, wasting hundreds of dollars worth of good rum just because he has no control over his hands.

He ends up trying to knock on the door with his elbow and it barely produces an audible sound, but within moments he can sense someone moving from behind the door and seconds later it is pulled open, revealing Melinda in a tank top and sweatpants, hair braided loosely and hanging over one shoulder.

“Coulson? What are you doing here?”

He tries to shrug as nonchalantly as he can, stepping slowly inside her apartment and waiting as she closes the door behind them.

“You came to see me when I got hit, thought I'd return the favour.”

She laughs, the sound is music to his ears after the two weeks he’s been through, worrying about her wellbeing. She accepts the bottle from him with a somewhat wicked grin, which fades into a softer smile when he hands her token he’d brought back from the shrine in Kyoto.

“A token for your good health,” he murmurs, repeating what he'd heard when he obtained it, and she squeezes his arm, whispering a quiet thank you.

He stays put, standing awkwardly by her front door as she sets the rum onto her kitchen counter before heading to her room. He's shifting from foot to foot, trying not to show his restlessness when she returns less than a minute later and gestures for him to sit down with her on the couch.

“Heard your Tokyo mission with Agent Feng was a success,” she comments, pulling her legs under her as she settles down onto the couch, patting the spot beside her when he moves a little too slow for her. He shuffles over and takes a seat by her side, letting out a less than subtle sigh.

“I was actually looking forward to working with you again,” he confesses, frowning when she snickers at his words.

“Trust me, I didn't exactly plan on getting stabbed in the back.”

He purses his lips and she rolls her eyes, shifting and turning her back to him, hands reaching behind her to pull her tank top up. There's a bandage covering her lower right back and he hesitantly stretches his fingers out to trace over the gauze, quickly retracting his hand when her entire body shudders.

“What's the damage?” he gets out after a moment, folding his hands over one another as she pulls her top back down and turns to face him once more.

“Nothing serious. I'll live. Should be back in the field by next month barring any major changes,” she informs him, carefully stretching her arms over her head.

She takes a deep breath in, holding it for a moment before exhaling, and smirks at him.

“You were so high on meds the last time I saw you,” she says, shaking her head as she laughs, making him huff in annoyance.

“I was kind of hoping to see what a drugged up Melinda May would be like.”

“Not a chance, Coulson,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Plus, I seriously doubt that there is any way I'd be as loopy as you were.”

“I was not that bad,” Phil responds, trying to defend himself, but he's honestly not sure what he was like. He doesn't really remember most of it, except for the parts where he was conscious and those were few and far between. He just knew that she'd been there for him and he had missed her presence when she'd had to leave.

“You were terrible,” is what she tells him, hiding her true thoughts behind a smirk. Truth is, she'd found the vulnerable, secret spilling Phil Coulson, endearing.

But she'd never admit to it.

“You'd never hold up against the truth serum they're testing at head quarters.”

He opens his mouth wide, frowning in mock offense and she grins, mostly because of the look on his face and only the tiniest bit because she's glad that she's managed to so seamlessly change the topic.

He eventually returns her smile.

But he can't help but wonder what they're avoiding having a conversation about. There's so much that he's afraid to say, that he thinks shouldn't be said, but he never even stopped to think that she might have a similar problem.

This was beyond the compartmentalisation of knowledge.

This is about holding secrets close to their hearts and as curious as he is to know what she is guarding, he thinks it's for the best that they keep it to themselves.

* * *

 

Phil’s thirtieth birthday comes and goes without too much cause for celebration. Bad guys are always stirring up trouble and every single agent is working overtime just to keep the world from crumbling to pieces around them.

He’s been in a bit of a sullen mood lately; he feels a little like he’s a mindless robot doing the same things day in and day out with no change. The very definition of insanity is to repeat a motion, an action, a thought and expect a different outcome each time. He thinks he might be drifting closer to that with each passing day.

So when he turns up for work on Monday morning, dragging his feet behind him in reluctance, he expects more of the same. Organising hypothetical missions and filling out reports - why did they even have an administration department if field agents were doing so much of their own paperwork? It’s not a question he thinks he’ll ever hear the answer to, but it doesn’t stop him grumbling about it to himself as he makes his way over to his desk.

He pauses for a moment after sinking into his seat, frowning at the lack of files. They were usually piled high, full of mission information, details about old operations, assets, page after page of useless facts for poor Level One and Two field agents to review. But his desk is strangely empty…

Phil sits, scratching the back of his head and letting out a quiet “huh”, unsure of how to react. He blinks several times, just to make sure that he’s not hallucinating and nearly leaps halfway out of his chair when a folder with the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo emblazoned on the front is thrust into view. His gaze catches on the delicate fingers holding the edge of the file. He tries to tell himself it’s not creepy at all that he can recognise her from just her hands as he looks up to find Melinda sitting at the edge of his desk, a familiar smirk on her face.

“Mission?” he asks, taking the file from her and trying his best to not show the level of excitement he is actually feeling at this point. He’s not sure his colleagues would appreciate him jumping into the air and letting out three loud cheers of elation because if Melinda is here, he’s probably going out into the field and won’t have to be stuck in this godforsaken office for another unending day of boredom.

“Undercover,” she says as he begins flipping through the file.

_ Dr. and Mrs. Harrison. _

They’re playing husband and wife. Again. He’s not sure how he feels about that. Well actually, he knows how he feels - both nervous and excited and some other things that he can't quite articulate, but that's neither here nor there.

“We’re supposed to root out a foreign operative. Sources say they’ll be in attendance at this event next week; a benefit for scientists to sell off their inventions,” she continues, tapping on the invitation with two fingers before drawing his attention to the other documents stored inside the folder. “Everything we need to know is in here. We ship out tomorrow morning; thought I could crash at your place again and we can go over the details, get into character.”

He looks up to make eye contact with her as she nudges the side of his knee with her boot, swallowing nervously at the smirk on her face.

“Guess we better pick somewhere to get takeout from for dinner tonight then. Wouldn't want you destroying my kitchen again,” he quips, closing the file and standing as she slips off his desk to mimic his position.

“It was one toaster, Phil,” she mumbles under her breath and he can't help but smile in delight because she's using his first name and somehow it feels more personal. “And here I was thinking my wonderful fake husband would be making me a romantic meal,” she says louder this time, punctuating the end of her statement with an exaggerated sigh, moving towards the door as he follows close behind, shaking his head at her words.

“File says I can't cook,” he replies without missing a beat and he's pretty sure the entire office turns to stare when she laughs.

He doesn't blame them; she has a way of drawing people’s attention and he has absolutely no resistance to her charm.

 

* * *

 

Phil paces the room, growing more and more impatient with each passing minute. There's a limousine downstairs ready to pick up Dr. Daniel Harrison and his wife, Delia, for the gala across town which is due to begin in less than an hour.

He's not worried that they're going to be late, he's just trying to get into character before they leave. He’s playing a scientist, an inventor, and while he’s already memorised everything provided in the briefing packet, he needed to really decide how his persona acts and stick with that. Melinda had laughed at him earlier, joking that it should be easy for him to play the dorky scientist. He had pretended to be offended for a moment, before breaking and cracking a smile at her laughter.

Speaking of Melinda, he can hear her moving around in the bathroom; she’s been in there for over an hour and he can't quite fathom why she needs so much time to get ready. She had already been a vision in a bathrobe hours earlier, brushing her damp hair while they ran over specifics for the evening.

He stops his pacing, pausing in front of the bathroom door and gently rapping his knuckles against the wood.

“I'll be out in a minute,” she calls out quickly and he supposes he should finish getting ready as well.

Phil moves towards the mirror on the opposite side of the room, buttoning up the cuffs of his sleeves before grabbing the suit jacket he had laid out on the bed earlier and shrugging it on. He begins straightening out his collar, smoothing out the invisible creases on his sleeves, eyes darting nervously to the still closed bathroom door behind his reflection.

When he hears the unmistakable turn of the handle however, he drops his gaze to his feet, suddenly finding the leather of his shoes absolutely fascinating. He’s still staring at the ground when a pair of bare feet and a swish of dark blue material enter his vision and forces himself to look up and meet the gaze of Melinda.

He swallows nervously, trying to take everything in at once. Her hair is down, loose waves cascading over her shoulders, a few stray strands curled to frame her face. Her makeup is heavy, dark, befitting of the character she was portraying, lips painted a shade of deep plum. And her dress, he has to draw in another breath at that; the dark blue fabric hugs every curve, leaving very little to the imagination, and she’s never looked so provocative, despite being completely covered up.

They don’t speak, just enjoy the silence, the calm before the inevitable storm that tonight will bring. He stands, unmoving as she brushes past him to grab his tie from where it still lay on the bed, reaching up to loop it around his neck, carefully pulling the silk into a knot, tightening it around his throat. He takes another deep breath as she closes her eyes for a moment and he knows that he’s not looking at Melinda anymore when she opens them.

She’s his wife, Delia, and it’s time for him to start acting like her husband.

“I have a surprise for you darling,” he tells her, cupping her cheek with one hand and she responds with due excitement, her eyes widening and the most adorable smile forming on her face. She cranes her neck to watch as he moves over to one of the duffels they had brought with them; this one in particular stored a spare change of clothes should they need it. He pulls out a small velvet box, turning it in his hands several times as he makes his way back over to her.

She covers her mouth with both hands as he opens the lid, revealing a diamond ring and he breaks character for just a moment to frown at the size of that thing - wondering how much money S.H.I.E.L.D. really spent on these missions of theirs. He then thinks back to the nights they spent in crappy safe houses and thinks that their accounting department should really distribute the budget a little better.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, he reaches for her left hand, running his thumb over the platinum gold band that already sits on her ring finger. They share a smile as he slips the much gaudier ring on so it sits above it, and unable to help himself, he brings her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss over her knuckles.

“Thank you for sticking by my side all these years, DeDe,” he says, grin growing as she threatens to kill him with her eyes. She doesn’t punch him, because she’s not Melinda in this moment. Instead, she slips her hand from his and reaches up to run a finger along the bridge of his nose.

“You better grab your glasses Danny, wouldn’t want you stepping on my toes all night,” she teases him and he laughs, catching her hand before she can draw it away, pressing a kiss against her palm this time. “Always looking after me,” he comments, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before letting her go and moving to retrieve the S.H.I.E.L.D. issued glasses sitting on the bed side table. He stares for a moment, trying to figure out where they’ve hidden the camera, before shrugging to himself and putting them on.

“How do I look?” he asks, trying to convey both nervousness and charm in just four words.

She giggles - now that’s a rare sound, and they move towards one another, meeting in the middle for an intimate embrace. His hands span her lower back, holding her close as her arms wind around his neck.

“Always handsome to me, my dork.”

He’s both flattered and offended by that statement and can’t help the blush he feels beginning to creep up his cheeks. “You’ll be great tonight,” she continues, brushing her lips over his cheek, her fingers teasing the hair at the back of his neck.

He knows that they’ll have to be; there’s backup and a strike team ready to move in once they identify the operative, but until then they’re on their own, no guns, no weapons, armed with nothing but their killer charm.

“And Phil, if you call me “DeDe” one more time, I’ll gut you like a fish.”

He has no doubt that she’ll follow through with that promise.

 

* * *

 

Two hours into the gala and Melinda wants nothing more to finish the mission, if only to kick off the uncomfortable heels on her feet. She doesn’t think she will ever understand why people choose to wear these deathtraps - one wrong step and you’d snap an ankle. Still, she keeps the smile plastered on her face, because Delia, Daniel’s loving and supportive wife would never complain or show even a sign of discomfort.

“Still no sign of our target?” Phil asks her, his breath tickling her ear as he speaks.

She shakes her head, resting her cheek against his shoulder as they move slowly together on the dance floor. They’d shaken hands and made small talk with just about every guest in attendance already and not one of them had seemed suspicious. Phil is an expert at picking up on little behavioural ticks that can expose even the most experienced of operatives, so if they’ve already made contact with the person that they’re searching for, they’re a little bit screwed.

Someone that good at hiding in plain sight is dangerous, more so than they had originally anticipated.

Phil is not looking forward to the inevitable fight that’s going to go down.

Melinda thinks that it’ll be fun.

 

* * *

 

They steal out into the hall together under the guise of getting some fresh air, so that they can go over details on how to proceed. She’s holding his hand, giggling as she pulls him along until they reach a recess in the wall.

“Keeping cover?” he whispers, pausing for just a moment as she nods, before backing her up into the alcove and pressing their lips together. They’re doing it for the mission, to draw suspicion away from themselves; it has nothing to do with how his touch had burned a trail of fire along her bare skin as they danced, how the scent of her perfume had left his thoughts clouded.

“Mr. Kendall, the one with Dr. King,” she whispers quietly against his lips and he blinks twice to let her know that he’s already considered the option and ruled it out. His hands find their way into her hair, fingers curling tightly around the strands and she reciprocates by yanking at his tie, pulling him closer to her.

“Ginger.”

Melinda snorts, breaking their kiss for the sole purpose of giving him the most disdainful look she can muster up.

“Ginger is a prostitute.”

He bites her bottom lip a little harder than he means to when they resume their cover and it’s a terrible move on his part because Melinda rocks her hips against his in retaliation. If he’s not careful he’s going to be limping his way back into the main ballroom in five minutes time with injury he won’t be able to explain.

“That wasn’t very nice, Lia,” he murmurs in her ear, his tongue darting out to trace the outer shell, teeth nipping softly at the lobe before he pulls away. Even in heels, she’s tiny, her entire body hidden from view by his.

They look like any other couple sneaking out to share a moment together.

That’s what they both think until Phil feels a sharp prick against the back of his neck and before Melinda has a chance to react, he’s pitching forward into her arms, unconscious. Over his shoulder, she meets the eyes of a woman she recognises from earlier, Julia, the escorts of one of the businessmen they had spoken to about “investments” and “furthering scientific research”.

Melinda silently debates whether she should ditch Phil’s knocked out ass here and go fight the evil spy. She can always come back for him later… Or she could play the clueless random civilian card. The risk factor is about the same and she can always get into a fight if feigning ignorance doesn’t work out.

Supporting Phil’s dead weight in her hands, she lets her mouth fall open with as much shock as she can fake. And then she screams.

 

* * *

 

His head hurts.

That is Phil’s first thought when he begins to regain consciousness. The second is the realisation that his hands are bound behind his back; he’s been tied to a chair.

Fantastic.

He wriggles his fingers, turning and twisting his wrists, grimacing as they rub against the rope holding them in place - whoever had captured him had not been kidding around. These restraints are almost tight enough to cut off his circulation altogether.

“Thought you would be out till morning, Americans and their weak constitutions and all.”

Phil looks up from his lap to find a woman staring down at him; her face is familiar but the first thing he recognises is her dress - she’d been the only one in white at the gala.

A paragon of virtue.

The splatters of half-dried blood on the bodice and hem of her gown send a chill running through his veins. His shoulders immediately tense as he scans the room; Melinda is not within his line of vision. Assuming he’d been taken out first, she has either escaped or been captured too. His memories are a little hazy on that front. He remembers the talking and the kissing, then his vision fading and blacking out altogether.

He’s three seconds from doing something stupid, acting rashly and trying to break free of his restraints when he feels something brush up against his hand. He stills for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut and concentrating on his other senses. Slowly, he becomes aware of someone breathing behind him, soft intakes of air that had previously been drowned out by his more ragged breaths. There’s also a faint comforting scent that forces him to lower his guard; it’s an automatic reaction, and if he wasn’t one hundred percent sure that it was Melinda behind him, he’d be worried that he could be so easily fooled in the field.

He tries in vain to stretch the ropes, seeking out her touch again, breathing in relief when her fingertips brush against his once more.

“Danny, are you okay?”

It’s Melinda’s voice, like he’s never heard it before. He can actually imagine the look on her face, the tears welling up in her eyes as she calls out for him. She sounded genuinely terrified.

“I’m fine, darling. Are you hurt? Did they do anything to you?”

She lets out a sob, a whimper of fear and all he can think about is how good she is at faking emotions. He tries his best to keep a mask of concern in place, but it’s not doing much for their captor, who just sneers at them, slinking over to stand directly in front of him, bending down so that their faces are inches apart.

“You can quit the act. I am not fooled.”

Phil clenches his fists behind his back as Melinda surreptitiously taps a finger against his knuckles three times.

_ Keep the cover. Wait it out. _

“Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just a scientist,” he cries out, shaking his head and willing tears to form. How did Melinda do it? Visualisations?

_ A sad puppy. _

_ Two sad puppies…. _

_ A whole litter of sad, pouting puppies. _

He feels a tear roll down his cheek and wills himself not to smile in satisfaction.

“Tears will not trick me either. Your organisation is so stupid for sending in the two of you. Anyone with two eyes can see that you two are not a real couple. In what universe does a woman like that end up with a guy like you?”

Ouch.

Her words are… a little hurtful.

Phil feels Melinda shifting behind him, her sobs still not subsiding. He takes it as a sign to continue this somewhat pointless charade.

“I know I don’t deserve her, but she’s been by my side since the beginning.”

This actually gets a bark of laughter from their captor.

“Please, I don’t know who you think we are… but we haven’t done anything wrong. If this is about one of my inventions… I’ll tell you anything. Just don’t hurt her. Please. I’m begging you.”

He lets out a particularly loud cry to emphasize his distress and it does well to hide the sound of Melinda’s escape, because a moment later, he feels her fingers wrapping around his wrist and undoing the knots.

“You Americans, you talk too much. You are tempting me to cut your tongue out, just to have a little silence.”

Phil keeps the look of confusion as Melinda slips the now untied rope into his freed hands and takes in a deep breath, waiting for the action to go down. She strokes the inside of his wrist three times, and then nudges his hand towards the right.

He counts to three in his head and then uses all the force in his body to throw himself towards the right, groaning as he hits the ground, hard. He cranes his neck just in time to see Melinda vaulting into a backflip and completely obliterating the chair she had been bound to.

The evil Russian spy hadn’t been completely wrong though, he thinks to himself as he lies like a helpless turtle stuck on its back as Melinda fights to save both their asses.

She was way too good for him.

 

* * *

 

“Agent May, you’re injured.”

Melinda clutches her side and glares in the direction of the agent who had addressed her, a specialist on their extraction team who she had not cared to learn the name of.

“Way to state the obvious, Oliver,” Phil comments dryly from beside her. She has one arm slung over his shoulder as he supports her weight; her ankle is busted and she’s bleeding from a dozen places. He’s not actually doing so well either; Melinda is almost sure he fractured something by crashing into the ground and he’s definitely limping even as he holds her up. But the enemy has been subdued and she’s barefoot and out of those horrific heels, so all is right with the world.

“What Agent Oliver meant to say, is that we should get you both to the med team,” Agent Ellis cuts in, eyeing their injuries wearily. Phil can feel Melinda bristling at the mention of getting checked out by their medical personnel, like a cat, hackles raised.

“No.”

“Agent May, I’m not really sure it’s wise to leave your injuries unattended to. I know you walked the streets of France with a knife in your back, but we’ve got trained professionals who can patch you up.”

Phil knows that there is no reasoning with Melinda when she grabs his elbow with one bloodied hand.

“I said no.”

The tone of her voice coupled with a glare from the both of them is enough to have the other agents step away, hands raised in the air in mock surrender. Phil silently guides Melinda towards the back room, bypassing the specialists who have now gone back to stowing away their gear. She’s hobbling, shoulders stiff and body tense, until the door falls shut behind them, and she sags against him.

“Can I take a look at your injuries or are you going to hit me for it?” he jokes as he helps her to sit down at the edge of the bed. It’s a far cry from the hotel room they’d gotten ready at before the mission, but as far as S.H.I.E.L.D. safe houses go, it’s not the worst.

He leaves her sitting as he moves to fetch the medical supplies and it can’t have taken him more than a minute - though he can’t be sure because his head is still ringing, but when he turns back, her dress is in a pile by her feet and he can see the extent of her injuries from the evening.

They’re bad.

Not as bad as he’d anticipated, but he does rush back to her side, as much as one can rush with a cracked rib - or two.

He doesn’t have to tell Melinda to hold still as he inspects the worst of her wounds; there are two deep gashes from what must have been a knife and her entire side is covered in bruises. He can hear her sharp intake of breath as he begins to clean off the dried blood with a towel dampened with rubbing alcohol.

“There’s a bottle of tequila in there,” she manages to get out, clenching her jaw, and he laughs, reaching over to rummage through the bag with one hand, grinning triumphantly when his fingers make contact with an elongated glass bottle. He doesn’t even pause to question why there is alcohol stowed away in their medical supplies before he passes it to Melinda, who doesn’t waste a second before popping the lid off and taking long swig,offering it to him.

He shakes his head softly, hands busy tending to her injuries. She needs it more than him anyway - the cuts are deep and will need stitches and there is not much in the way of anaesthesia to numb the pain.

She’s tough though.

Phil can hear Melinda’s quiet gasps of pain as he patches her up as gently as he can manage; trying not to let his fingertips linger too long on her soft skin. This is all so strangely intimate, and he loses track of time, loses track of reality as he continues to help her, to accomplish the task that she refuses to let others even try.

His hands are shaking by the time he is finished, whether it be from exhaustion or from nerves, he doesn’t know. He allows Melinda to push the now half-empty bottle of tequila into his hands as she pulls him to sit down on the bed beside her, reaching over to unbutton his shirt. She’s fast, fingers nimble and actions purely methodical as she checks his body for any serious, long lasting damage. He groans aloud when she pushes against his ribs and it only prompts her to do so again, pressing hard enough to assess the injury.

“Bruised,” she informs him, plucking the bottle from his hands and downing another mouthful.

“They are now,” he replies, trying valiantly to not laugh at his own joke, because it actually hurts to do so.

She snorts at him, before reaching over towards him once more, fingertips making contact with the small scar that marked the spot where he’d been shot last year. He recalls the very fuzzy memories of her being at his bedside, helping him in those first few days of his recovery.

“Thank you,” Phil says, staring into Melinda’s eyes, admiring the shades of brown that are mingling together under the harsh light of the bulb that hangs above their heads. He doesn’t need to say what for, she knows.

“Did she get you anywhere else?”

He huffs lightly at her and while they're sitting together in a crappy safe house, battered, bruised and only half dressed, sharing a bottle of cheap tequila, he can't imagine a better way to end a mission.


	7. VII

Phil loves his S.H.I.E.L.D. issued apartment, he really does. It is close enough to their New York base to make getting to work easy, but far enough so that he isn’t regularly bumping into other agents on the street. Sure, there are at least fifty or so operatives that live within the same building as him, but they're away on missions so often that running into each other is rarer than seeing Fury crack a smile.

The rent is deducted from his paltry salary each month and barely makes a dent, which is nice considering how he is lucky to spend a week at home every month. Most of the time he is either staying late at the office, or halfway across the world in crappy safehouse, or if he’s fortunate enough, a luxury hotel.

Despite all of this, the moment he has enough saved up, he invests in his own place. Somewhere private, off the records, and far, far away from the prying eyes of his agency. He searches high and low for an apartment that has just enough space for him; one which doesn't eat up his life savings in one go.

And so, in January of 1995, Phil moves to Brooklyn.

The location has  _ nothing  _ to do with the fact that it’s the very place where Steve Rogers grew up.

Absolutely nothing.

The new apartment has a spare bedroom, not that he’ll ever need a second one, and a bigger kitchen, which he promises to himself that he’ll use as often as he can. There is more space for his vintage collectibles, though with the way he is amassing them, like one might do with non-perishables prior to an oncoming war, he thinks the one shelf he has at the moment might not be enough to showcase, nor store the items.

The only downside is the lack of space on the street and he ends up finding Lola a new temporary home at a multi-level car park. It takes him nearly fifteen minutes to walk there from his apartment, but he thinks of the distance as added exercise, not that walking an extra mile or two a day makes much of a difference given the unhealthy snacks he inevitably manages to pick up during every trip.

It takes him close to two weeks to finish unpacking, which is undeniably a long stretch of time given how little he actually brings along with him. All of the furnishings in his SHIELD issued apartment had come with it and he had managed to fit all of his possessions into a couple of cardboard boxes when packing for the move. To be fair, he could’ve probably unpacked and decorated the entire apartment to his liking within two or three days, but work always got in the way.

Not that he’s complaining about the week long trip to Florida, chasing down a lead that turned out to be nothing, enjoying all the perks that came with going undercover as a wealthy businessman.

It was a little lonely though, as are all solo missions with only a handler whispering in one’s ear for company. Phil always made sure to keep things entertaining when he was on the other side of that ear piece, cracked a few jokes even. He isn't quite sure how well his humour is appreciated, but he makes the effort nonetheless.

A little laughter did a lot to make a day less daunting.

Going on operations by himself are not enjoyable, but what is worse is the home he comes back to in the end, the lights out, everything empty, nothing waiting for his return. Sometimes he considers getting a pet, maybe a dog, a loyal golden retriever to keep him company, but just as with everything else that the job stops him from having, keeping an animal around is out of the question.

He’s gone more often than not, and even a houseplant would be a giant inconvenience to look after.

Phil sleeps on the couch his first night back after his sudden trip to Orlando, because he has yet to finish building the bed, and all he has to eat is greasy pizza from the Italian place across the road.

He allows himself that one night to wallow in self pity, promising to be more proactive once he has a good night’s sleep, and he makes good on his oath to himself. The following morning he is up with the sun, and begins crossing off things he needs to do. It actually takes him nearly two hours to finish unpacking all of his clothes, refolding them and storing them neatly in the built in wardrobe of his new bedroom. It doesn't matter though, as he has the entire day to carry out his tasks, the only work related matter being the need to fill out the reports and various assorted paperwork from his mission, which he could do in the evening after setting up his desk.

A schedule is set and he works hard and fast at each item on the list. By the afternoon, he’s covered in sweat despite it being the middle of winter, but his bed is made and his collection is neatly stowed away.

All in a day’s work.

Phil will never admit it, but he stands in the doorway of his bedroom, giving himself a literal pat on the shoulder, admiring his own handiwork. He draws the line at telling himself he’s done a good job out loud, but it doesn't stop him from thinking the words before he heads off for a well deserved shower.

He’s in a new place with a new home and plenty to see and explore.

And maybe he might be a little lonely at times, but that’s a price he’s willing to pay.

 

* * *

 

Phil has been in Brooklyn for nearly two months when he finally has a day off to just explore the streets. The snows have melted into Spring, and it quite possibly is the best time to be free. He has managed to visit many places in his thirty years, but this is only the fourth he’s really lived in, and it’s a different experience.

He trades his suits for an open collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of slacks that aren't black or gray, and his gun for a detailed map of the streets before setting out to see the sights.

The maps only ever show the most popular tourist destinations or landmarks, and while the history buff in him longs to visit, a bigger part of him wants to go out and discover his own favourite places. Maybe a coffee shop that's two blocks further than the one he frequents on the way to work, but with the flakier pastries that other places did not offer. Perhaps a diner that could rival his favourite back in New York City, one open from early in the morning till late at night, somewhere he could find comfort food at all hours of the day. Possibly even an antique store, wedged between a furniture shop and an old salon, or a bookshop with all of the classics.

For Phil, these are the things that matter the most. The world around him, the world that he sees with S.H.I.E.L.D., it isn't always pleasant, and surrounding himself with comfort is all he can do at times, to ease the pain.

 

* * *

 

For all the places he wants to find, it is the people that walk around him that Phil cannot stop watching. He’s always found observing others to be fascinating and this hobby of his has only grown with the training and experience of being a field agent.

He watches the men, women and children, all going about their day, each one with a different story to tell, should they ever be given the chance to. People getting ready for the day ahead, grabbing breakfast on the go, and eventually lunch. Before he knows it, his day of freedom is half over, the sun slowly beginning to set, casting a red glow over the buildings, creating shadows that are forever changing.

Phil is standing outside a little cafe, maybe ten blocks from his apartment, considering whether or not he should try some more coffee, having already visited three shops earlier, when he is slammed into by someone exiting the bistro next door.

He forces his body to relax, refraining from acting on instinct like he might in a fight, and turns to find a younger man crouched on the ground, furiously apologising as he attempts to collect all the papers scattered on the ground, evidently dropped during their collision.

“I am so sorry.”

Phil just shakes his head, bending down to help collect the stray pages before the wind carried them away.

“Happens to me all the time,” he responds, trying to make light of the situation. They're both unharmed and maybe there's a stain or two on the guy’s papers but the rest of them made it out fairly unscathed and Phil has no reason to be annoyed.

He thinks bumping into strangers on the street is a great way to start up a conversation and learn more about those around him. It’s the tiniest bit invasive, but he gives the stack of rumpled pages in his hands a once over as they both stand, before handing them back over to the man.

There were drafts for something, words typed up and scratched out with blue ink. The guy has a file full of newspaper clippings, and the worn leather bound notebook at the top of the large pile in his hands has  _ J.M  _ printed in gold on the corner of a cover.

_ Probably a graduation gift from his parents, meant for a budding journalist to take notes in. _

Phil could spend an entire day just analysing everything about anyone and come up with his own backstory for them, but of course, most people don't stay put long enough for him to reach a conclusion that he is happy with and this guy is the same. He offers Phil and awkward smile, ducking his head in apology before dashing off once more and by then Phil has only deduced that he is in his early twenties, with an Irish background, and had probably grown up around here.

He watches for a moment, just until  _ J.M  _ disappears into the crowds, and shrugs to himself before heading into the coffee shop, figuring he has nothing to lose by trying some more.

While the exterior had been less than impressive, a peeling sign and a well-worn door, the inside is warm and cozy, clean and bright; judging from appearance alone, Phil thinks he may have found the place for him. He had prepared himself for a tiny space, but a narrow entryway had expanded into a large open room, filled with tables and chairs of all different makes, shapes and sizes. The counter has a cabinet with desserts on display, and the opposite wall is lined with shelves which are full of books and magazines.

Rush hour is over, being too late for lunch and too early for dinner, and the place is empty save for a few members of staff cleaning up behind the counter. He scans the room, not for somewhere to sit because he can sit anywhere he wishes, but out of habit, as if he has a built in need to look for any and all escape routes no matter where he goes.

In the end, he settles for one of the arm chairs in the corner near the shelves that has a tiny glass table in front of it, immediately turning his head and body to browse the shelves when he is seated.

He had been disappointed at being unable to find a bookstore in town today, but this is a good substitute for reading materials until he is able to find somewhere else.

Phil is completely engrossed, fingers running over the well-worn spines of the books which have been sorted quite randomly, neither by genre or title or author. He doesn't notice that someone has come to greet him until a shadow falls over his body and a cheery voice addresses him.

“Welcome to Stripes, I’m Sunshine, and I’ll be your server today. What can I get for you?”

The waitress is tiny, maybe in her early twenties at the most, though she could pass for much younger. She has a notepad in one hand, and a bright smile on her face and he figures he should have at least checked the menu because now he has no idea what to order.

The amount of caffeine in his system is quite high he thinks his knee might be jumping a little on it’s own.

Phil isn't sure what comes over him when he orders a white tea and whatever dessert his server thinks will go best with it.

He's never been a huge fan of tea, even tries to conceal his grimace when it is brought out to him alongside a custard filled tart with whipped cream and fresh berries. Even with three sugars the tea is bland, but the dessert is exquisite and he leaves the waitress a hefty tip and a smile, along with a promise that he’ll be back again soon.

And he definitely keeps that promise in the following months, spending more down time at  _ Stripes  _ than he even does at home.

Sunshine greets him with a warm smile, tea and cake each time, and he thinks he has finally made a friend for the first time in forever.

 

* * *

 

Time goes by quickly when one is jumping from city to city, state to state, continent to continent, and during some particularly stressful flights, Phil scarcely remember what month it is, let alone what day.

So when he returns home after a week staking out at seedy pubs in Texas, he's too exhausted to even react to the fact that Melinda is lounging on his couch, her feet up on his coffee table, flipping lazily through television channels, a duffel almost half her size in her lap.

“Nice place,” she comments drily, never taking her eyes off his television set and he just shrugs, rubbing his eyes and heading to his bathroom to take a shower and wash off the flight. In his state of mind he can't be sure she isn't a figment of his imagination.

Not that he imagined her showing up randomly at his house often. Maybe once, or twice. Three times tops.

Twenty minutes later, after the hot water has soothed the aching muscles in his body, and the steam has somehow cleared his thoughts, he changes into old sweats and a t-shirt, entering his living room once more to find Melinda still there, seemingly not having moved an inch since he first saw her.

“How did you get here?” he asks, drowsy and content, having completely relaxed after his shower, sinking down beside her on the couch with a smile.

“Asked Mrs. Foster for the spare key.”

He shakes his head, unsure whether he is grateful or not that he’d left a key for his seventy year old neighbour when he was away, just in case. It might be a little awkward to ask for it back, and changing the locks seems a little dramatic. He's pretty sure Melinda or any other highly trained spy for that matter would have to problem picking said lock anyway.

“No I mean here. Secret address and all.”

Phil gestures around the room with one hand and it's Melinda’s turn to smirk, rolling her eyes at him.

“Return address on your last package. Thanks for that by the way. The agents who screened it were convinced it was a medieval weapon of some sort.”

He shrugs, trying his best not to look too embarrassed. Picking out souvenirs had never been one of his strengths, and he honestly cannot explain why he still does it. Melinda probably tossed them out anyway; he can't imagine she would keep such tacky gifts for very long.

Still, it was the thought that counted, and he did think about her often, in a completely innocent, non suggestive kind of way. She was his closest friend.

Phil attempts to sit still as Melinda eventually grows bored of channel surfing, turning off the screen with a press of a button, setting the remote back onto his coffee table and sliding her bag off her lap before standing.

“I meant to ask you before,” she starts, stepping over his legs and heading for his spare room. “What's with the map?”

He follows close on her heels as she leads the way down the corridor, flicking on the light switch as she enters the room. While she moves right in, he cannot help but stand in the doorway for a moment, admiring the work he had put into setting up the display.

There are several bookcases set up to house his comics and collectibles, but the focal point of the room is the giant map of the world that spans an entire wall, marked with several red pins.

“I used to have a mini atlas that I carried around in my pocket; marked it with all the cities I had visited. It got a bit worn down and I thought this would be a nice way to keep the tradition going.”

If he sounds a little wistful, he's done a pretty good job of concealing just how important it is to him. He wants to travel the world and see all that he can see, and he's already given up a lot for an opportunity like this.

There is no going back.

“I like it.”

It's short and simple, much like most of what Melinda says, but a compliment none the less, and he’ll take it. He expects them to stand in silence for a moment longer before finding something else to do, but to his surprise, Melinda grabs the bucket of pins he has hanging beside the map, turning to him with a smile.

“Maybe it's faster to take over the world, if there are two of us working together,” she says, and he knows that she's asking permission from him, to add her own markings upon his map.

He nods silently, unsure of how to respond. His map had always been something all his own, something he didn't share with other agents, mostly because he could envision the hard time Garrett and the others would give him over it. But Melinda is his friend, and as he watches her add her own blue pins around his red ones, he wonders if maybe he had wanted something like this to happen, to see other colours mingle with his own upon the wall.

“Looks pretty good,” are the only words he manages to formulate when she's done, turning around with a small grin of triumph.

“When did you visit Brazil?” she asks him as she's hanging the basket back on its hook, and he shrugs with the best non expression he can manage.

Rio had been a month and a half long mission spent in the back of a van running back end while other agents went in and had all the fun. Six weeks of sweating through his shirt, freezing cold showers and sleeping restlessly for hours at a time before being woken up to keep watch.

Really exciting stuff.

“It's classified,” he says instead.

Phil considers himself lucky that he manages to walk out of that one alive, the glare Melinda directed at him probably enough to have even Fury quivering in fear.

 

* * *

 

Melinda understands the value of having down time from work, to recuperate, rest up before she's sent halfway across the world and back again, but it's so incredibly boring with nothing to do.

She wonders if she should find a new hobby, but reasons that a week off really isn't enough to get much done. After five days spent at the firing range, the gym, sparring with any agent willing to go up against her, she packs her bags and hitches a ride to Brooklyn, figuring her last day of freedom would be better spent bothering an old friend, rather than alone at home.

To no one’s surprise, Phil insists on taking her to all of his favourite spots in Brooklyn, and even suggests they use the day to practice “spying” on people, to appeal to her.

She agrees and doesn't tell him she would have said yes anyway, because she wants to make this less awkward for the both of them.

“You could practice being undercover,” he informs her happily and she glares at him, repeating his words under her breath despite knowing her annoyance is pointless because he probably already has a solid cover developed around here.

She makes a huge fuss when he insists that she wear a dress to push the limits of her comfort zone, but neither of them comment on the fact that she had packed one with her.

Still, she changes and he tries his best not to stare, telling himself that it's just like any other mission or practice for a mission. He doesn't tell her that she looks beautiful, or that he’s excited for the day they're going to spend together.

“Darling,” he says instead, holding out his arm for her, grinning when she rolls her eyes and begrudgingly loops her arm around his.

“Dearest,” she responds, and he can almost hear what she’s actually thinking.

It's something along the lines of “I hate you, Phil,” and “I'll be getting you back for this.”

He wonders if he's insane for looking forward to that second statement.

 

* * *

 

They visit all of Phil’s favourite places, stopping to have small meals at his recommended diners and restaurants, and browse the shelves in every aisle at every store.

Phil saves  _ Stripes  _ for last, wanting to end their day by taking Melinda to his favourite place to relax at, and he just hopes that she doesn't think it's stupid.

No matter how difficult the mission, how exhausted he is at the end of the day, spending some time at the little cafe always makes it better. The atmosphere is calm, quiet, and there are always new books to read, new drinks to try.

He’s had every possible tea combination on the menu, sampled most of the desserts they have on offer there, and formed a pretty good friendship with the waitress who had served him during his first visit, and every visit thereafter.

She always greeted him with a smile, bringing him new teas and desserts to try and sometimes they would end up conversing for ages, the shop always mostly empty during his visits.

Phil thought the name Sunshine suited her very well, because she lit up the room like the sun would, and the smile she gave him after he had relayed the words to her was absolutely dazzling.

How he loved meeting new and different people, getting to interact with them.

It really was the best part of his job.

They stop outside the shop and Melinda unhooks her arm from his, holding down her skirts against the sudden breeze as he opens the door and ushers her inside, feeling a stark contrast with the cool interior of the cafe, to the humid summer air that blanketed the entire city.

He keeps a hand at the small of her back as they edge down the narrow hallway together, and if Melinda doesn't like the place, she's damn good at hiding it.

Phil finds himself unable to take his eyes off her even as she looks around the room, leaning closer into him and, not for the first time, he wonders why it is so easy for them to pretend like this, to play at being a couple.

“It's cute,” she finally says, and Phil can't tell if it's her fake undercover persona speaking, or the real Melinda. He slides the hand on her back around, until his fingers are loosely wrapped around her waist and he knows no one else could have noticed the sharp jab in the ribs Melinda gives him in return.

“Play nice darling,” he whispers in her ear, having to bend down to do so, and she squirms slightly at his breath hitting her bare neck. Phil grins at the attention to detail she puts into playing each character, knowing that the real Melinda has too much control to budge even at the most shocking of sensations.

His first instinct is to lead her over to his usual spot, tucked away in the corner, but it doesn't seat two, so they head for a red loveseat closer to the door. Melinda smooths down her skirts once she is seated, and if he hadn't been so painstakingly trained to pick out little quirks and ticks that give people away, he would totally believed she worked as a secretary and adored quaint little places like these.

“The girl behind the counter is staring at us,” Melinda says under her breath, turning slightly to face him. She still has a light smile on her face but he can see past it to the underlying grimace, can practically picture the familiar expression across her features.

“That’s Sunshine. We’re friends,” he responds, directing a smile over in the young woman’s direction, barely concealing his frown when she doesn’t respond as usual, her gaze trained on them like Melinda had commented.

“Yeah. You two look really friendly,” Melinda deadpans, and it is so eerie to hear such a monotone voice come from her when she’s smiling at him like that.

He doesn’t respond, just staring into her eyes and hoping to convey his annoyance at her as subtly as he can manage, and somehow, it turns into a staring contest when she refuses to blink. In this moment, Phil thinks briefly back to their days at the Academy, and learning how to keep a straight face in any situation.

This is certainly testing his limits.

“Can I take your order?”

The voice that breaks them apart is familiar, but the tone is not. In all his visits to  _ Stripes  _ , he had never seen Sunshine lose her temper once, not even after particularly unruly customers, so he’s surprised at how angry she sounds. He supposes that anyone can have a bad day and that he shouldn’t judge based on the fact that she hadn’t returned his smile, or was gruff when addressing them.

He turns to face her with a smile, digging his fingers into Melinda’s hip to remind her to do the same and with the way her nails dig into his thigh in response, he forces himself to relax. It’s just like any other time they’ve pretended or actually gone undercover together. The mission, and keeping cover, always came first.

“I’ve never been here before,” Melinda says, her tone so uncertain, pressing closer into Phil’s side. “What do you usually have, honey?”

Before he has a chance to answer, Sunshine does it for him, and Phil refrains from raising his eyebrows, masking the surprise from his expression.

“Tea and our cake of the day.”

Phil watches as Melinda’s mouth drops open in surprise, and he knows at least part of it has to be genuine, because she knows that he doesn’t drink tea.

“But you hate tea.”

He can hear the sharp intake of breath beside them, but his attention hones in on Melinda, the expression in her eyes, the slight frown marring her features, the way her bottom lip is sticking out just a little, and he rests his hand over her’s with a soft smile.

“But you love it. And I wanted to try them all so I could impress you when I finally brought you here.”

He doesn’t know how much of his words are lies, meaningless fodder to distract civilians, and how much speak the truth, that deep down, a part of him always sought the approval of others. He is truly glad that part of him seems to be fading with age and experience, being able to compare it to a mishandled mission, where they get the job done at the end of the day, but not everyone is happy about it.

“Dork.”

Melinda’s voice is soft, and everything is still and quiet, like it usually is, until the silence is broken by a loud cracking sound, and Phil doesn’t catch where it came from, but then Sunshine is muttering something about bringing them the usual and a coffee, and disappearing behind the counter.

“So, how’s Kyle?”

It’s not safe or responsible to converse about missions out in the open, no matter how empty their surroundings are, so Phil goes for the next safest topic.

Melinda’s “boyfriends”.

She huffs, pursing her lips at him for a split second before returning to the happy clueless expression she had adopted for today.

“Ken. Long gone. Same with Matthew.”

Some might call Phil a thrill seeker, choosing such a dangerous profession to dedicate his life to, being in the line of fire constantly. But even he isn’t stupid enough to make a comment about how Melinda has gone through five men, that he now knows about, in the past five years. He shouldn’t be one to judge; after all he’s only had very brief casual relationships with other agents, and those never lasted very long.

“That’s too bad,” he tries, and it’s the safe answer because Melinda shrugs, before her smile turns into a grin and he has a terrible feeling that she’s going to make him discuss equally uncomfortable topics.

“So. You and the waitress?”

Phil’s mouth drops open once more and he shakes his head, waving his arms rather precariously around in order to demonstrate just how wrong Melinda is with her assumptions.

“We’re just friends.”

Melinda just looks at him, and he gets the feeling he’s very much being judged by her, but before their discussion can go on, the topic of their conversation appears, silently placing their order onto the table before slinking off once more.

“I don’t think she realised that.”

Phil scratches the back of his neck, feeling himself reddening. He had never considered that Sunshine would see him as anything other than a customer or a friend; he’d never had to think about these things before, happy to go about his life and visit as many places as he could see, meet as many people as he could meet.

“Are you sure?”

He reaches for his mug of coffee, hoping to find something to occupy his his jittery hands while waiting for a response, but Melinda grabs his arm before he can, looking him dead in the eye.

“I’m not saying your coffee is poisoned, but I wouldn’t put it past someone to have put laxatives in there as revenge.”

“What revenge?” he almost shouts, throwing his hands up.

“You misled her and then brought me here, and we’re currently pretending to be a couple.”

Phil frowns, sighing loudly.

“I never misled her.”

Melinda tilts her head to the side, giving him a pointed look, and he takes a brief moment to reflect on any and all interactions he’s had with Sunshine in the past couple months. She had always been particularly friendly to him, but he did tip well and made sure to compliment-

Oh.

Did she... did she think that he was interested in a relationship?

He isn’t quite sure how he had managed to confuse her into thinking that he wanted to pursue her, not that she wasn’t a lovely girl and god, this isn’t the time but the only speech that comes to mind is the “it’s not you, it’s me”, which he hasn’t had much personal experience with, but from what he’s seen, never goes down well.

Maybe… maybe he needed to be a little less friendly if he was giving people mixed signals like that. And maybe he would have to find a new place in town to hang out around, given how awkward things are likely to be in the future, especially given how he has no intention of being in a relationship with anybody at this stage in his life.

Though, having heard stories from other agents, he doesn’t think there ever will be a right time to choose his own life over his dedication to the cause, and it’s a choice he made the day he signed on.

He is pulled from this thoughts when Melinda pats him on the arm in a familiar motion, one of their many codes from previous missions.

_ Keep cover. _

It’s probably a better idea than his first instinct of legging it out of there and never returning, so they put on their fake personas once more and enjoy their meal, which thankfully, doesn’t end up being poisoned or laced with diarrhoea inducing drugs.

Melinda just pats him on the arm when they get back to his place, telling him that they’ll see each other next time before grabbing her belongings and leaving. He’s left staring at his front door after it swings shut behind her, wondering why they still haven’t gotten that drink she promised him at graduation.

He mulls over it for a moment, shrugging to himself before turning away and heading to his room for another night in, alone. As he curls up in bed that evening, a mug of hot chocolate on his nightstand, thumbing through a worn Captain America comic book, he supposes his life could really be much, much worse.  

 

* * *

 

Phil’s next visit to D.C is in late June, after two weeks supervising a pair of level one field agents on an undercover operation in Switzerland. The first thing that hits him when he steps off the jet is the warmth, and he can finally feel his blood begin to circulate once more.

He was supposed to have two days off before being shipped off to the Australian outback to investigate a potential alien artifact, but an announcement had gone out to all agents that altered their itinerary.

Director Carter would be retiring.

When he arrives at the Triskellion for the ceremony that evening, having stopped at nearby barracks to claim a bunk for the duration of his stay, the sheer amount of people in attendance shocks him.

S.H.I.E.L.D. often lurked in the shadows, liked keeping things quiet, and Phil could have never anticipated a gathering so large and lavish, even to celebrate the retirement of their agency’s director.

They've fashioned a stage in the basement of their Headquarters, converted the space into a hall of sorts. It is reminiscent of a university lecture hall, but quite possibly a hundred times the size, and the agents sit and listen, as speeches are given by several high level operatives.

Phil applauds louder than ever when Alexander Pierce announces that Fury will be taking over as Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Garrett cheering rather inappropriately beside him.

The evening is a happy one, celebrating the contributions Peggy Carter had made in all her years, and even though Phil already is well versed in his knowledge of her history, and their agency’s history, he finds himself growing emotional with every word that is spoken.

“I am honoured to have upheld the the ideals and beliefs that this organisation was founded upon in my years as Director, to have kept my promise to Colonel Phillips and Howard Stark. They were there with me when S.H.I.E.L.D. was created, and it saddens me that they are no longer with us. Their hope, and now mine, is to see S.H.I.E.L.D. and everything it stands for continue to thrive, to protect the world, as it was always intended to.”

Cheers erupt when her speech is complete, agents rising to their feet to give their former director one last standing ovation, for all she had done for them.

For all the pain, all the loss they had suffered, for all the bad in the world, they were still here today.

And they would strive to make Agent Carter proud, to protect, to be the shield.

 

* * *

 

Melinda’s apartment hasn't changed since his last visit, during her recovery from being injured in France. Her fridge is still as empty as ever, drawers filled with take out menus and he wonders how she can stay so fit eating that crap all the time.

He’s sitting on her couch drinking coffee when the door turns in the look, and he raises his eyebrows in amusement when he sees the man she is kissing goodbye.

Either a hairy caterpillar had attached itself to the guy’s upper lip or that was the ugliest moustache Phil had ever seen.

He manages to stifle a laugh with his hand as Melinda shuts the door behind her, before turning to him with a glare.

“I know you're trying not to laugh.”

He grins as she dumps her bag onto the floor, and shifts over on the couch as she moves to sit down beside him, toeing off her shoes and tucking her feet beneath her.

“What's with moustache man?”

She scoffs at his less than creative nickname, and yes, Phil probably could have picked something better to comment on but that moustache, he just couldn't take his eyes off it.

“It's for a role. Edward is an actor.”

And now Phil’s eyebrows do shoot up once more, surprised that Melinda would date an actor, a profession quite the opposite to their own, and also realising how little he knows about her taste in men. Part of him wants to know, for satisfy his inquisitive nature of course, but the smarter part of his brain informs him that asking is a very bad idea. He avoids commenting on it; there are things better left unsaid when it comes to Melinda, so he changes the topic, nudging her with his knee.

“Wanna go grab some stuff? I'll make dinner. You could stop eating take out for once. Do you even know how unhealthy that stuff is, with all the fat and grease?”

Melinda pauses, looking him dead in the eye and somehow she appears to be both angry and amused.

“Are you calling me fat?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but once again, has no words. Sometimes Phil wonders why he doesn't think more carefully before he talks. Melinda is just teasing him clearly, because she has no insecurities with her body image, but he could inadvertently offend someone one day.

Maybe he should just be like her and talk less.

It would eliminate the number of times he could stick his foot in his mouth in a single day.

 

* * *

 

He turns thirty one during the operation in Australia and returns home two weeks later than scheduled to an empty apartment. There’s a kangaroo key chain in his pocket and he wonders when he might have a chance to give it to Melinda in person.

The time difference and jet lag gets to him, and he sleeps for an entire day before he gets his things in order.

When he moves to his spare room to add a new pin to Australia, he finds there are two more blue ones on the map, and an envelope on his desk marked with his name.

The note inside has only four words in it, but they make him smile regardless.

_ “Phil, _

_ Happy Birthday. _

_ Melinda.” _

As does the new trading card tucked behind it, another he can add to his collection.

 

* * *

 

Phil is given an opportunity to plan his first major operation in September. For several years rumours have been flying around, about a mercenary who fancied himself Robin Hood, stealing from the rich.

Except this rogue archer didn't give to the poor; wasn’t really the charitable kind. No, after robbing the wealthy, he killed them too. He took out politicians, businessmen, other foreign operatives, always for a hefty sum and always disappearing without a trace.

And while that usually wasn't something S.H.I.E.L.D. had to deal with, the country having plenty of other intelligence agencies that claimed jurisdiction over such crimes, they had lost at least six of their own targets to the assassin in the past two years.

Phil is filling out paperwork at his desk because there are always mission reports to complete, when the file is dropped unceremoniously on top of his hands, and he looks up to find Fury standing there looking more pissed off than usual.

“Fools have been trying to chase down ‘The Amazing Hawkeye’ for months. They've found nothing. Waste of bloody resources. We have no idea what he looks like, how old he is, if he is even a  _ he.  _ If we lose one more potential asset to this guy or girl, people are going to be stuck cleaning my cat’s litter boxes indefinitely!”

He listens patiently as the director rants about the uselessness of whoever was in charge of the case up until now, thumbing through the too thin file, hoping to find something useful.

They had nothing on this guy.

Fury’s anger appears to be very much justified.

“You are good at reading people. I want you to find out who this son of a bitch is and when you do, take him out.”

Phil is flattered that his former supervising officer thinks so highly of him, but also nervous that he too might fail and they'll be back at square one in a few months time and Fury will be yelling at some other agent in an office somewhere about his incompetence.

“Surely you want someone with a higher clearance level for a target like this,” he responds, flicking to the last page in the file. They have nothing on this guy except for the S.H.I.E.L.D. targets he had taken out and other potential kills that could be linked back to him.

It’s going to be a ghost hunt.

“If I wanted another agent, I'd be giving  _ him  _ the briefing. Get your ass on this.”

It's going to be difficult, that much he can tell.

Still, he likes a challenge.

Closing the file in his hands, he gives Fury a firm nod.

“Yes, sir.”

 

* * *

 

He certainly doesn't regret agreeing to this mission five months later in a darkened hotel room with an arrow pointed at his face.


	8. VIII

As it turns out, Phil’s promise to himself in regards to his new kitchen, and making sure he actually ended up using it, is easily fulfilled when he’s not being sent out to a different city every other week. The excitement and thrill with constantly travelling to new and old places all over the globe will likely never fade, but sometimes in life it’s nice to be able to hit pause, even if it is just for a moment.

It really allows him to reflect on the decisions he’s made in the past, decisions that have lead him to where he is now; puttering around his kitchen in his pajamas, freshly showered and trying to decide what to make himself for dinner.

His files, paperwork and various notes are still spread out on the counter where he left them earlier. He didn’t want to disturb the inspirational zone he had managed to create with the random layout. Somehow, it helps him work more productively than at his desk, whether that be the one at his apartment, or back at base.

He definitely needs the boost in productivity.

Phil knows the limitations of his own abilities better than anyone else, and as difficult as scraping up even the smallest details about  _ Hawkeye  _ is, he believes in himself this time. He has more than a little faith that he won’t let Fury down; unfortunately he also currently has very little to show for all his confidence, so he envisions many late nights of research and analysis in his future.

He’ll probably have to head out and restock his coffee supply at some point. His favourite mug, white with a pattern in blue and red, is still sitting beside his paperwork with the remnants of his third drink of the day at the bottom. He picks it up, swirling the liquid around as he scans over his paperwork once more, hoping that skimming through the words might inspire a new train of thought.

It's been six weeks since Fury assigned him this task and he’s gotten no further than the last agents working on the case, a team of analysts and specialists hand picked by Director Carter. They’d been on the hunt for six months before the higher-ups pulled the plug on their mission and Phil doesn't know how he's going to accomplish something that an entire team of level threes and fours couldn't manage, but he's damn well going to try.

He attempts to concentrate on the facts he does have at hand, humming nonsense to himself as he washes up his mug, thoughts moving around in his mind much like the water circling the drain in the sink.

Hawkeye kills with a bow and arrow.

It's an unusual weapon of choice, considering how medieval it seems compared to others that fire projectiles, like guns and rifles.

There are easier, deadlier, far less visible ways to take people out and through SHIELD, Phil has come across many of these methods. There are causes of death for some of the victims they've recovered that he would not have believed had he not seen it first hand.

Still, their target remains faithful to his or her weapon.

It's possible they only have skills using the bow, but the injuries on some of the bodies recovered tell other tales. Bruises, cuts and broken bones, inflicted antemortem, were all evidence for a physical fight.

While Phil had initially theorised that Hawkeye always hunted from a distance, he is now otherwise convinced. They are not afraid to make things close and personal, to physically engage with their marks when necessary. Two known victims had bled out from injuries inflicted by knives, the only connection tying their deaths back to the bow wielding assassin being damage caused by arrows to the location where their bodies were discovered.

Phil muses over these things as he begins to prepare his meal for the evening, wondering why one might go to the trouble of using a bow and arrow when they were that skilled with a blade. He’s been trying to come up with a reason for days, having analysed all the details that came from the original investigation, and finding small facts that had been missed. The autopsies performed on the victims were not always accurate, especially so when S.H.I.E.L.D. is beaten to the scene by local law enforcement. In several cases, there has been heavy evidence suggesting multiple assailants, though Phil and every agent who had handled this case before him agree on one thing.

Hawkeye works alone.

Whoever they are, they had not received the kind of training that a spy might. Their attacks are not sloppy, but not methodical either. Each move executed is more out of necessity and experience, rather than hard training and constant drills. Their bow and arrows are prized possessions, but the other weapons, simply improvisations as required.

Anything can be deadly at the hand of someone with enough experience to use it.

Knives are dangerous things on their own though, and Phil concentrates on the one in his hand, quickly slicing up an onion, holding his breath in an attempt to keep himself from tearing up.

Those survival classes at the Academy did come in handy after all; though he’s pretty sure this was not their intended purpose.

Exhaling softly, Phil prepares the other ingredients that need chopping; mushrooms, garlic and various herbs. He manages to get everything sliced, diced and onto a plate within five minutes, though he’s not made any progress on theories in regards to his current mission.

He runs through as many known facts as there are available, combs over them time and time again to see if there is something he has missed. It's difficult to dig something up without any new information to go on, but he realises the only way they're going to get any more details is if Hawkeye eliminates another target, and Phil hasn't yet reached the point where he's praying for murder, even if it might make his life easier.

The files beside him beckon, and he abandons everything else for a moment, just reading through them again, desperate to find a clue that he somehow missed the first thousand times. Logically he knows there is nothing else there for him to learn, that the only way he’ll crack this is through the very abilities and skills that landed him his job in the first place.

His stomach grumbles, and with one final defeated sigh, he packs up the documents, stacking them neatly on one corner of the counter, resigning himself to the fact that he isn't likely to get any more work done for now, especially not on an empty stomach.

He can work more later tonight or tomorrow, but for now, there's a steak in the fridge with his name on it.

 

* * *

 

Phil has a breakthrough two weeks later, two entire months after being assigned to the case, and while part of him is pissed off that he didn’t pick up on and connect the facts earlier, another part is too relieved that he’s finally made progress to care that it has taken him the better part of September and October to do so.

What started out as a virtually empty file provided to him by Fury is now folders filled with research and in-depth analysis, leads, sources, anything and everything that might lead them closer to uncovering Hawkeye’s identity and putting a stop to his actions.

They’re closer now than ever before.

Phil is almost a hundred percent sure that Hawkeye is a male in his twenties or thirties, given that his list of known kills only goes back eight years. There are many other tiny details that support his hunch, each fact obscure and useless alone, but together, they paint a picture of their target that had not been drawn up before. His findings are all neatly handwritten, compiled together in the dozens of notebooks he’s taken to using.

They're all in his possession when he heads back to their New York base to present his findings to Fury, who has flown out from D.C. for the sole purpose of being briefed on Phil’s progress.

He hopes that he doesn't disappoint.

Fury remains expressionless as Phil explains his analysis, and when the director doesn't stop him, he moves to elaborate on his plan to hunt Hawkeye down. He details his methods and plan of attack, and promptly shuts up when Fury holds up a hand, clearly having heard enough.

“This two person team you're suggesting; you know I can't spare any high level field agents or specialists.”

Phil nods quickly. While he realises he's in no position to make outlandish requests, he wants to be able to pick his partner on this one and already has someone in mind that he knows he can trust to watch his back.

He wants Melinda.

As the thought truly registers in his mind, Phil comes to the realisation that throughout the process of designing this operation, she had been the one on his mind. He had imagined them staking out, undercover, sparring and taking down the villainous archer.

Together.

He can feel his cheeks heating up at that and tries to tell himself that they're just friends, and it's not untrue. He wants her because they work well together, and nothing else.

Somehow he manages to convince himself of that, but Fury interrupts his unending mantra of “She’s just a friend,” with a loud cough and Phil looks towards him nervously, willing the red flush on his face to fade away.

“I was going to suggest Agent May, but it seems you're a step ahead of me this time.”

Phil chuckles nervously as Fury stands, giving him a pointed once over before moving towards him and clapping him on the shoulder.

“Team’s approved Coulson. If you need anything else, well, you know where to find me.”

With that he exits, and Phil is left staring at a table filled with mission plans, hoping that he's doing the right thing, that he's separating his personal and private life.

With Melinda, it's too easy to let the lines blur and if he wants them both to survive on this path that they've chosen, he can't let that happen.

He would much rather see her alive, than dead.

 

* * *

 

Melinda knows realistically that Phil hadn't been wrong the last time he visited her, when he had pointed out the issues with her diet. Sure she exercised, stayed hydrated and drank her teas, but her food consumption is undoubtedly a one way street to clogged arteries and massive heart attacks, and while she wants to be healthier, she refuses to eat just leaves and nuts all day.

It isn't as if she hasn't tried cooking before. As a teenager, back in the days when she had been convinced she could do anything, she made an effort in the kitchen. Her parents had constantly told her growing up that she could do anything as long as she worked hard, but they had not counted on her abysmal lack of ability when it came to food preparation.

The only thing she's managed to master thus far is toast, and it's not as if she can survive on just bread for the rest of her life. Ordering out is the fastest and cheapest way to eat, but it does make her yearn for home cooked food.

Edward had been able to cook. He was far from being a restaurant quality chef, but certainly nowhere near as terrible as she, not that it mattered now, considering how quickly their relationship had fizzled out.

Sometimes she wonders what it is about her that drives so many men away, but then again, she has more important things in life to consider. In all honesty, Melinda would rather not have to analyse her romantic relationships at all, but she's in a rather unfortunate spot right now, speaking to the one person in the world who can see through all her pretenses.

“I hope you have been maintaining a healthy social life since we last spoke.”

Melinda glances up from the cup of tea in her hands, trying to school a neutral expression as she meets Peggy’s discerning gaze.

As usual, it doesn’t work.

With anyone else she might glare until they’re too intimidated to question her further, or try and convince them that the relationships she’s engaged in within the past several years have all been mutually beneficial. She’s adept with lying in most situations, but this is not one of them.

There is not a single one of her previous relationships that she regrets; they’ve all become an integral part of her past, but they’re a constant reminder of how much she takes from others in order to give to S.H.I.E.L.D. She wonders if it should be a concern that she does not want to make a change in this, despite the regret she has in the failure that is her personal life.

Melinda thinks, not for the first time, how similarly her life is turning out to that of her mother’s.

She also realises that Peggy has managed to manipulate her into reflecting on uncomfortable topics once more and suppresses a smile, shaking her head softly as her former supervising officer laughs.

“Thank you for that.”

Her words are genuine, as real as the weight she now feels is metaphorically pressing down on her shoulders. She does not relish having to continue this train of thought after dinner tonight when she’s back at her apartment.

Alone.

 

* * *

 

It takes twenty minutes to walk from Peggy’s apartment to her own and Melinda spends all of them quietly reflecting upon her life, because if she does it now, then she can forget about it later and actually do something productive once she arrives home.

It's easier to keep her personal and professional life separated, but she doesn't know if it makes her happier at the end of the day. Finding the right balance is difficult and she's in a bit of a sullen mood by the time she arrives at her front door. It doesn't last - in fact her emotions become the least of her worries as she hears something inside her apartment. She's immediately on edge, hoping it isn't her mother dropping by for a visit unannounced.

With a sigh, she unlocks her door, frowning when she realises her apartment is pitch black. She slows her movements, quietly locking the door behind her after she steps in, trying to let her eyes acclimatise to the darkness of the room around her.

Melinda is a little on edge, but it being a S.H.I.E.L.D. issued apartment, only people with clearance could have gotten in without her accompaniment, and her guard is quickly lowered when she spots the unmoving lump on her couch. Her apartment is easy enough to navigate in the darkness, and she moves to switch on the kitchen lights, so as not to disturb her sleeping guest.

Phil did look peaceful when asleep, not that dozing on her couch in his suit could be remotely comfortable.

She sees now that there are files spread out on her coffee table and there must be a mission to prepare for in the morning. There's a sense of excitement, like there is before every new mission, but working with Phil will probably always be different to the rest. He isn't just another field agent; he's a friend, and she stands there in her kitchen, just watching the steady rise and fall of his chest for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

He would be so embarrassed at falling asleep when he woke up tomorrow morning.

Melinda wonders for a moment if she is exceptionally cruel by looking forward to the expression on his face when he inevitably realises he nodded off in her home. She smirks at the thought, heading off towards her bedroom. It takes a minute or so of digging through her cupboards, but she manages to find a spare blanket that spans the approximate length of the couch.

Phil hasn’t shifted an inch since she left him there. She drapes the blanket over him, bending down to tuck it around his body, freezing when he lets out a sniffling sound, and she realises her hair is likely irritating his face. Brushing it over one shoulder, she pulls at the edges of the blanket once more to ensure that it is in place, taking a moment just to gaze at his sleeping features before pulling away.

“Sleep well,” she whispers, though he cannot hear her, hoping two words are enough to ward off whatever horrors might haunt him in his slumber. Peggy once told her that the only spies who did not have ghosts of the past terrorising their dreams were either young, or dead.

She would gladly endure a lifetime of nightmares if it meant all those she cared for were alive and well in reality.

 

* * *

 

Melinda wakes at five the following morning and she knows from the silence of her apartment that Phil has still yet to stir. She carries out her routine as usual, but this time in her bedroom, finishing off the workout with a hot shower.

When she exits her bedroom shortly after seven, drying her hair with a small towel, the couch is visibly vacant, the blanket she had retrieved the night before folded in a neat pile on one end. A dark blue tie and a black suit jacket are laid out beside it. Her gaze turns to her coffee table, where the files too have been sorted and divided into two even stacks, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s logo a stark white against the dark folders.

Phil’s knack for organisation has never failed to amuse her.

She turns the corner slowly, peering into her kitchen and sure enough, he’s puttering around, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he fusses over two mugs on the counter. The mental debate she has over whether to speak up or creep up on him lasts only a moment, because somehow despite her complete silence, he looks up in her direction, a nervous smile forming on his face.

“I made you tea.”

She smirks.

“I can see that.”

He flushes a little at her words, grabbing both mugs and moving over towards her. Her hands pause in their task - her hair is no longer dripping, just damp, and she shrugs the towel over her shoulders to avoid getting her tank top wet, freeing her hands to accept the hot drink.

Wordlessly, she leads him back over to her couch and he moves his discarded clothing so they can sit side by side. She makes the decision not to tease him about last night after she has a chance to look at him more clearly, seeing the bags under his eyes and the slump of his shoulders, he's clearly exhausted. God knows how long he waited for her to get home yesterday; dinner at Peggy’s always ran late and she hadn't gotten in until midnight.

She studies his face, the way he closes his eyes as he takes a sip of coffee, the peaceful expression that forms, how the crease in his brow lessens. He’s comfortable letting his guard down around her, and that is the kind of trust that is important for teamwork, partners.

Speaking of which…

“I take it we have a mission?” she asks, even though the answer is obvious. His eyes flutter open as he turns to face her, and she nods towards the files as casually as she can manage, not wishing to betray just how eager she is to learn about the operation and to work with him again. It isn’t just the prospect of teaming up with an old friend, but to be honest, she can’t pinpoint the exact reason.

“Yes. I've been doing research the past few months and I actually planned this one out myself.”

He looks so proud, so excited, and she can't help but return his enthusiastic smile. When she doesn't respond any further, he begins to explain the plans to her, and his attention to detail is not surprising, but still incredible.

If it were anyone else though, she may have dozed off or faked a sudden sickness to get out of hearing the boring, useless facts. She's a specialist and needs only her orders, not to sit and listen to the strategists formulate their plans.

But Phil’s excitement rubs off on her and she finds herself following his seemingly endless tirade with rapt attention, hanging onto every word. Her chance to ask questions comes almost an hour later, and she's honestly surprised he managed to wrap things up so quickly, given his tendency to ramble.

She only has one thing to ask of him.

“When do we leave?”

Her tone is flat, almost disinterested, but Phil is an expert analyst and she isn’t sure just how much she manages to conceal when it comes to him. It’s as if he can see inside her mind, hear every thought and feel every emotion, each time he gives her that look, the sincerity in his expression as he stares into her eyes, a somewhat hesitant smile on his lips.

He grins instead of speaking, wide enough to show his teeth, and Melinda has a feeling this mission will be one to remember.

 

* * *

 

Phil’s opinion about flying is decidedly neutral. He doesn't panic or nervously sweat at the prospect, nor is he in love with the skies like some are.

But he is beyond excited to be standing in the cockpit behind Melinda as she flies them from D.C. to Los Angeles.

He knows better than to disturb her and her co-pilot, Agent Halloway, who had look him up and down when he entered earlier, clearly unimpressed by what she had seen.

It stings a little, but he's used to it. Plus, in this line of business, having an unassuming appearance is an asset, not a hindrance. He can blend into any crowd, disappear into the shadows with ease, but also stand in the centre of attention and still be overlooked. He chooses to have a positive outlook on these details, and in life, knowing the hardships and cruelty that many in the world face from day to day.

The skies are beautiful, worth marveling at for the first five minutes, and then they're a constant, endless expanse of blue and white, and Phil has to find something else to occupy his attention with.

A group of specialists are playing cards just outside of the cockpit - he can just make out the sounds of their conversations. While part of him wants to join them, a bigger part would rather stay here with Melinda - even if she barely acknowledges his existence.

He  _ had  _ promised to be quiet and not ask questions after she conceded and allowed his presence in the cockpit during the flight, and he's hardly one to break such a sacred oath.

Though she would be a hypocrite to tell him off for it if he did, considering they still haven't gotten that drink she promised they would more than five years ago.

He's not bitter about it. Really.

With a sigh, he tries to turn his mind to more productive thoughts, like the mission ahead. It's been a week since he met up with Melinda in D.C. and while they both would have preferred to set out immediately, Lola didn't fit into the back of the standard jets that were available and they'd had to wait until a mobile command unit would be taking a similar route.

While Phil is perfectly aware that Lola is just a car, he can't help but feel safer when she's around. She's a constant presence. She has been in his life since as long as he can remember, and he doesn't want to know a day where she isn't there. As he watches Melinda toggle a switch, a ray of light hitting her hair at just the right angle, making it shine, he knows that it’s the same reason he had wanted her by his side.

 

* * *

 

Their mission, which is eventually dubbed “The Hunt”, because Phil has a terrible sense of humour, takes place in five distinct stages over nearly two months, and it’s quite possibly the most adventure either of them have had to date.

It doesn’t start out that way though.


	9. IX

Melinda has visited California four times in the past few years on missions, but the first time was by far the most memorable.

“You did leave me in the bay for five hours.”

She hears Phil’s quiet grumble, picked up by the microphone they’ve hidden in the collar of his shirt, and she grins even though there is no one else around to see it. It’s become a kind of routine to rag on one another about past missions, little inside jokes that have others turning their heads with puzzled expressions, and she wonders if it might be this way in another decade or two, reminiscing about their youth, the old days.

The image makes her smile and feel a pang of nostalgia at the same time, so she pushes the thoughts out of her head and tries to focus on other things instead.

This particular safe house is similar enough to her apartment for her to be fairly comfortable, and that’s probably a good thing because she’s been pretty much stuck inside since they arrived. On any other mission, she’d be on the other end of the comms, listening to or ignoring instructions from her handler, but somehow Phil has managed to convince her that this is the best way to sail smoothly through the mission.

So here she is, stuck running back-end while he stakes out diners all over the city, and if she really thinks about it, she’s probably better off here while he does the spy work because he fits right in.

“I fished you out eventually,” he whispers, and she snorts.

Apparently the risk of civilians thinking him mad for talking to himself is worth the subtle reminder that he got to play hero that day.

Dork.

They lapse into a comfortable silence as he navigates the streets of Los Angeles, and she can hear the moment he enters another location.

It’s the twenty-second diner they’ve checked out in the past week, each one bringing them no closer to any trace of the infamous Hawkeye. Melinda wonders if Phil has grown sick of all the burgers and fries and shakes he’s been scarfing down, while she orders take out like any other normal adult living in the city.

If he has, he doesn’t complain. It’s one of the many things she admires about him. What she isn’t admiring, is the lack of progress they’re making on this mission. Whilst she had raised a brow at Phil when he initially explained the plan, she hadn’t doubted his decisions or skills. She still believes in him now, but the lack of action is making her a little antsy.

Of course she isn’t hoping that Hawkeye is going to suddenly pop up and start firing arrows at Phil, because she doesn’t want to see her partner turned into a pincushion, but a little more activity would be nice.

Melinda supposes that she will have to make do with the nightly sparring session that she and Phil have started engaging in to keep their skills sharp.

 

* * *

 

Phil feels like he’s gained about ten pounds in the past week alone, and the sight of the waitress bringing him another burger with a side of fries is enough to make his stomach turn a little. He smiles and thanks her with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.

Opening up his paper, he turns to the puzzle section and begins to fill out the crossword, muttering nonsensically to himself under his breath so the staff and other patrons won’t be alarmed later on when he’s trying to communicate with Melinda.

She’s mostly silent, but he can hear her moving around in their safe house and conceals a smile by brushing his hand over his mouth. Melinda can move with no noise, and he knows that the footsteps and other sounds are for his sake, so that he knows she’s still there. He thinks that she must be bored out of her mind, but they need to have patience and wait.

That’s the right move to play here.

An analysis of one of the arrows recovered in California last year showed traces of bacon grease, and whilst every other agent who had come across this knowledge had chosen to ignore the fact on the basis that it lead nowhere, Phil had only concentrated on it harder.

This might lead nowhere.

But he has a feeling Fury designated him this task because he had a penchant for overthinking seemingly worthless details, the same habit that had gotten him recruited for S.H.I.E.L.D. over a decade ago.

What a long ten years it’s been.

He imagines that if he had finished that history degree, his life would have turned out exactly as seventeen year old Phil had pictured; he’d be working as a teacher, married, maybe with a kid or two. Maybe he would be happy.

“How’s the crossword?”

Melinda’s voice comes through the comms and Phil finds himself smiling again. She doesn’t have video on him, which is a risky, but equally cautious choice, so her question comes purely from how well she seems to know him.

“I’m stuck on eleven down,” he responds, running his finger over the clue as he takes a sip of his coffee, hiding a grimace at the taste. He's no coffee snob but what he just drank tasted more like dirty dishwater.

“Clue?”

“A jump in ice skating. Seven letters.”

He hears Melinda’s grumble and figures she must not know the answer either. It's quite an obscure topic.

“Salchow.”

Huh. Interesting.

“How do you spell that?” he asks, instead of the more burning question on the tip of his tongue.

_ How did you know that? _

“Sierra. Alpha. Lima. Charlie. Hotel. Oscar. Whiskey.”

He fills in the boxes as she speaks, and makes a mental reminder to ask her about it when he gets back tonight.

For now he has people to surveillance, greasy diner food to eat, and a crossword to finish off.

* * *

 

Melinda is a little on edge.

It's past eight o’clock and Phil has yet to arrive back at the safe house. She’d grown suspicious after he had disabled his mic and earpiece upon leaving the diner almost two hours ago, with a cheery, “Going radio silent”.

She hopes he hasn't gone and gotten himself into trouble.

The sigh of relief she releases thirteen minutes and forty seconds later, when he finally gets back is genuine. She is close to going off at him for disappearing, but figures he must have had his reasons. The degree to which she worried for his safety and well-being alarms her.

He’s a grown man and a trained agent, just like herself.

But she felt better when she was sure of his whereabouts.

It's the basic instinct of protection, drilled into them at the Academy, like every other skill, and nothing else.

“You're late,” she mutters anyway, because there is no harm in pointing out the fact.

“I had something I needed to pick up,” he responds, and she finally tears her gaze away from the files in her lap to look at him. Sure enough, there is a large white box in his hands.

Melinda raises a brow but still shuffles over on the couch, setting her reading material aside, curiosity piqued.

“What is it?” she asks, frowning when he huffs and shakes his head lightly.

“You can't seriously tell me you've forgotten.”

The expression on his face is a mix of sadness and pity, and it dawns on her what he is referring to a split second before he opens the box to reveal an intricately decorated cake.

_ Her birthday. _

Of course she hadn't forgotten the date of her own birth, but it wasn't something she thought of too often. Sure, she had commemorated the day with parties as a child. Even had double the celebrations after her parents had divorced. Her twenty-first birthday had been spent at the Academy, getting drunk with a group of fellow cadets, the more senior ones having snuck in alcohol under the noses of their supervisors for them.

It's never really been a huge deal for her.

She knows Phil is a sentimentalist though, and she had left him a gift earlier this year for his birthday. He managed to remember hers the year before, all drugged up and presenting her with a llama. But they're on a mission right now, and while she had anticipated he might recall the date, even mention it or greet her with verbal well wishes, she hadn't expected him to really do anything about it.

Apparently, she doesn't know him as well as she might like.

“I hardly see why I should be celebrating hitting my thirties,” she mutters, grateful that he is already slicing into the cake and not forcing her to blow out candles or some other nonsense.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll always be older than you,” he tries, gaze flicking over to her as he carefully divides the cake into several even pieces.

“Thank you.”

Melinda bumps her knee against his, offering him a soft smile. She hopes that it can convey how thankful and appreciative she is of him.

“I picked this up when I was in Australia,” he mumbles a moment later, rifling through his pockets for a moment before triumphantly pulling out an item that has her slowly blinking.

It’s a stuffed kangaroo. On a keychain.

She has a feeling he’ll be crushed if she doesn't respond positively to it, so she accepts the gift with another quiet word of thanks, gently patting his knee with her hand.

They share the entire cake for dinner and don't end up sparring at all, but she pins him seven times out of nine the next morning to make up for it.

 

* * *

 

They end up leaving California the following afternoon.

Phil decides that they’ve accomplished all that they, or rather he, set out to do, and that it’s high time to move on to the second part of his rather elaborate plan. It takes them less than two hours to pack up their things, piling them into Lola and heading off to their next destination.

It’s a twenty-five hour drive to Iowa and as tempted as Phil is to test out Lola’s capabilities, they don’t want to alarm everyday civilians with a bright red car zipping past at an impossible speed.

The trip takes two and a half days, and they make three stops along the way, spending a night in a crappy motel room in Colorado. He dozes off as soon as they get checked in, and is pretty sure that Melinda doesn’t sleep a wink, given how she spends the second leg of the trip mostly napping beside him. While he usually prefers driving with the top down, he leaves it up to allow her a more peaceful slumber, as she had done for him by keeping watch at night.

He knows she would have offered to drive if it were any other vehicle, and the fact that she hadn’t because of his obvious protectiveness over Lola is somewhat touching.

Melinda begins to stir not too long after they cross from Nebraska into Iowa, and he watches her out of the corner of his eye as she shifts, slowly blinking awake. He stays quiet, waits to see if she’ll initiate a conversation, and when she doesn’t, he turns his attention back to the road. The last four hours of their drive is spent in a companionable silence, and neither of them speak until they arrive at their next safe house.

“Huh.”

It’s the only sound that comes from Phil as he takes in the dilapidated shack that they’re thankfully only spending two nights in before they move on.

He wonders if they’ll survive an hour, with the way the entire structure shakes at a particularly forceful gale.

Melinda just rolls her eyes and retrieves her own bag from Lola’s trunk, not waiting for him as she heads up to the house, fiddling with the lock to let herself in. With a resigned sigh, he grabs his things and follows, turning his head to glance back at Lola.

Maybe it would be safer for everyone, Lola included, if they slept in the car instead.

 

* * *

 

As with most S.H.I.E.L.D. safe houses, the interior is much more impressive. It’s old and worn down, but he no longer fears that the roof will collapse on them while they’re sleeping. He runs his fingers over the walls, feeling the stone beneath his skin and hoping that it’s enough to hold the building up, even against the force of the wind outside.

They designate tasks before settling in; Melinda inspects the perimeters while he stows their belongings away, checking on the weapons supplies they have at hand should it become necessary.

He seriously doubts that it will.

At least, not while they’re in Iowa.

If things do get out of hand, they brought enough ammunition along with them to take care of the problem. He only wishes they had packed more food as well. There is no kitchen here, just a microwave plugged into a socket in the wall and two chests filled with MREs. The only water comes from a basin tap in the bathroom, and he thinks it will be a miracle if the rusty shower head can churn out even lukewarm water.

The last thing he wants to do is go three days without bathing.

Not when he’ll have to share a mattress with Melinda in the evenings.

“We could probably set off an explosion and there would be no one around here to notice.”

Phil turns from his inspection of the microwave - which thankfully works, to find Melinda beside him, sweat on her brow from the run she had just taken, despite the weather outside. He chuckles at her words, groaning when he pushes himself up off the ground, knees aching from kneeling on the concrete floor and god, when had he become such an old man? She rests a hand on his shoulder when he’s standing once more and he imagines her skin is cold and clammy.

Her touch is anything but.

“I’m gonna take a shower; you should try and sleep for a bit. There’s still a few hours before you have to head out.”

He nods slowly, watching her pull out a change of clothes and retreat to the bathroom, listening to the groan of the pipes as the water turns on. Making his way over to the mattress, he sees Melinda has already claimed the left side, several of her belongings messily laid out there. He pulls a sleeping bag from his pack, laying it out and climbing in, willing sleep to come.

There’s a spring digging into his back, and a chill hitting the back of his head thanks to the drafts coming in from almost every direction, but the exhaustion takes over soon enough and he falls into a restless slumber.

Phil has distinct and fond memories of visiting carnivals as a child. He remembers the bright colours, shiny lights, the new and different smells and how loud the crowds were. There were the foods you couldn’t find anywhere else, the games that were near impossible to win and the main attraction; the rides for both children and adults alike.

He hasn’t been to one in over twenty years, not since his father’s passing, and he supposes he still hasn’t.

After all, circuses are in a league of their own.

The colours, lights, smells and crowds are eerily similar, but even five years in the field as a S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent do not prepare him for the wonders he experiences tonight. The acts are all mesmerising in their own way, and he quickly becomes distracted, focusing on the talents being showcased in the centre ring.

It's probably a good thing that being completely engaged by the show is required as part of his cover.

 

* * *

 

“You know, the circus is looking to hire new acts. You'd make a pretty good acrobat.”

Phil doesn't even try to conceal the grin that forms when he hears Melinda’s signature huff of disapproval come through his earpiece and he gives the flyer one more quick look before heading off to join the crowds of people making their way to the open parking field.

“Or a tight rope walker.”

He imagines Melinda must have great balance, given how difficult it is to knock her down onto the mats.

“How about we join as a double act and I tie you to a moving target and throw knives at you?”

The scariest thing about that statement is that Phil can't tell whether she is joking or not. He tries to picture it in his mind and is disturbed by the image of himself in a sequinned outfit.

“I'm not sure I could pull that off.”

She laughs and he thinks that's the end of it, that they'll start talking business for the twenty minutes it will take him to get back to the safe house.

“You're right. But you could always grow a moustache, become a ringleader.”

He's clearly mistaken.

 

* * *

 

The temperature drops to below freezing by the time Phil gets back and while Melinda has no particular aversion to the cold, she doesn't relish the thought of spending the night on a crappy mattress on the floor of their equally horrendous safe house.

Phil clearly has similar thoughts, because he sits down beside her with an audible sigh, his breath visible in the chilly air.

He hands her a cold turkey sandwich before taking one himself, and they eat in tandem, not voicing the complaints on the tips of their tongues.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” she eventually mumbles, bumping her shoulder lightly against his. Smiling, he returns the sentiment, though she knows this must be disappointing for him, being such a traditionalist.

They end up crawling into separate sleeping bags, lying back to back, wide awake with their eyes somehow refusing to close.

Melinda can actually feel the way Phil is trembling, shivering, and she would be too, had she not schooled her body to remain still. They have tonight and then another to survive, and there is no point in making themselves suffer if they don't have to.

She fumbles with the zipper of her bag in the darkness, silently easing it open before reaching for his and doing the same. He tenses for a moment, but they don't need to exchange words to know what she is suggesting.

They both shuffle slowly towards the centre of the mattress and with a little bit of maneuvering, their sleeping bags are overlapping. Melinda can hear Phil’s heavy breathing, see the way his body moves each time he draws in a lungful of air.

The proximity is almost overwhelming.

A less than gentle gust of wind sends all those thoughts flying out the window, and she curls up against him, seeking warmth.

Providing it.

They find sleep easily now and are lost to this world, her pressed against his back, one arm unconsciously slung around his waist, a cocoon of warmth between them.

When the sun comes up, they can pretend it never happened.

 

* * *

 

Melinda supposes that she should consider herself lucky, having the opportunity to partake in a mission of such importance. They’re chasing down an internationally wanted criminal and it’s just her and Phil, two low level agents with barely a decade’s experience between them.

She knows there are people more qualified, more skilled even, but it’s no mystery how Phil managed to be assigned to the case. It was an opportunity from Fury, for Phil to prove himself.

What she does wonder however, is how she ended up as his partner on this operation.

Melinda is no strategist - sure, she thinks before she acts, but over-analysing a situation has never been her strong suit and the only reason she keeps thinking about these menial things now is out of sheer boredom.

They left Iowa two weeks ago and she has been holed up in a million dollar estate since - it might have been a dream come true the first few days, after the crumbling safe house from earlier, but there is so little to do she finds herself wishing for something to go wrong.

Nothing serious of course; maybe a couple of evil henchmen for her to beat up.

While Phil is schmoozing with the socialites at garden parties and book clubs, she’s left to her own devices. Today’s entertainment comes in the form of identifying which woman is speaking just by listening to the sound of their voice and it’s harder than it sounds, because they all sound like robotic clones of one another.

“Oh Teddy, you have to come by again next week and tell us all about your vacation to Thailand. It sounds so exotic.”

_ Harriet Downing. 24. Daughter of Layton Downing, died July 1994. Cause of death: Arrow through the skull. _

“And that trip to Paris? C’est Magnifique!”

_ Olivia Waller. 22. Awful French accent. Daughter of George Waller, died January 1993. Cause of death: Arrow through the heart. _

“Yes please Teddy. We’d love to have you over again.”

_ Maya Anderson. 27. Daughter of Susan Anderson, died August 1993. Cause of death: Blood loss due abdomen wound, antemortem arrow injury to the leg. _

“I’m sure that can be arranged. I look forward to seeing you all again soon.”

_ Phil Coulson. 31. Level Two S.H.I.E.L.D. Field Agent. Surprisingly flirty, probably has a smug  _ _ smile on his face right now. Due to head through the door in T minus two minutes, will likely ask her about her day, followed by what she wants for dinner. _

She is still sitting in the lounge by the front entrance one hundred and thirty-two seconds later when she hears a key turn in the lock, and she waits, just listening as the door swings open and shut.

“Hey, what did you get up to today?”

Phil is standing in the entrance with a goofy smile on his face, the suave persona of his character having vanished the moment he stepped through the door, and she just stares at him, knowing her gaze alone will convey her frustration and boredom.

“There’s nothing wrong with taking it easy when you have the chance, May.”

She meets his gaze and makes a pointed effort to slump on the couch, sinking into the cushions, and instead of rolling his eyes like she might, he just smiles even more.

“What are you feeling like tonight? It’s still early, might have time to make something a little fancier.”

Melinda smiles now, leaning her head even further back into the couch cushions and closing her eyes. She doesn’t have to see to imagine the expression on Phil’s face, likely a mix of feigned annoyance and uncontainable happiness, the latter of which she sees all too often.

It would be annoying if she didn’t find it kind of cute.

 

* * *

 

Phil is seriously rethinking his decision to attempt to achieve the impossible; more simply titled, teaching Melinda May how to cook. He doesn’t start out with high expectations, seeing as she had destroyed his toaster the last time she did something in the kitchen other than boil water.

“Don’t you want to learn how to fend for yourself?”

Melinda is decidedly not impressed with his question, hopping up onto the marble countertop, crossing both her arms and legs.

“You want to see just how well I can fend for myself?”

Her tone is non-threatening enough for them both to crack a smile and his doesn’t waver as he begins to unload the bag of groceries he had driven out for earlier.

“I have a feeling you’ll show me later anyway.”

The ingredients purchased are simple, basic, but he does good basic, and he imagines Melinda might be able to as well, if she takes the time to learn. As impatient as her demeanour is, he can see past it to the glint in her eye; she’s not quite excited, but entirely intrigued.

“What are you making?”

“You mean, what are we making.”

He feels her glare and makes a point to ignore it, beginning to stow away the items they won't need for tonight’s dinner and retrieve others they will. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Melinda reluctantly hopping off the counter and beginning to poke around. Her stare is more curious than annoyed now, and he sets two large mixing bowls in front of her with a smile.

“Ravioli. Home-made pasta is the way to go.”

Melinda's expression morphs from one of intrigue to disbelief, but she makes no objections to his menu choice, so he counts it as a win.

 

* * *

 

Cooking is fun, Melinda decides.

Phil, who now has a face full of flour, does not share the same sentiment.

“Really, a food fight? How old are you?”

The exasperation in his voice is clear and it only makes her grin wider.

“Younger than you, old man.”

She's a split second too slow when he hurls a handful of flour back in her direction, and their food fight has now escalated into a food war. There's a carton of perfectly good eggs she can use as ammunition, and she goes for it.

He hurls the Parmesan they had grated earlier back at her, and she ducks behind the counter, narrowly avoiding a face full of cheese.

“You're ruining a perfectly good meal,” she hears Phil call, and she laughs.

It's the most fun she's had in ages.

“You're ruining a perfectly good food fight, Phil,” she calls back, frowning when there is no reply. Carefully, she peers out from her hiding spot, finding the coast completely clear.

Suspicious.

Melinda is close to creeping out and investigating when she is attacked from behind, a weight suddenly pinning her to the ground and she hesitates for a moment before letting out a cry of pain.

“Oh shit. May, are you okay?”

She stills for just a moment, calculating Phil’s position behind her, and then she pounces, knocking him flat onto his back

“Just peachy,” she pants out. He might not have done any lasting damage, but she did get the wind knocked out of her, and they’re both breathing heavily as she straddles him, her forearm pressed lightly against his neck.

“I’m a terrible spy,” he groans, and she laughs, reaching to brush some of the flour off of his face, smile softening when he wrinkles his nose at the sensation. His hair has been coated as well, but he’ll definitely need to wash that out, so she concentrates on his forehead and cheeks. She wonders if it’s just the contrast against how white the flour is, but his face appears redder than usual, his cheeks especially.

There are other possibilities, ones she would rather not consider, so she doesn’t point it out.

“New plan. You go take a shower, and I’ll tidy this mess up. And then you can make dinner while I get myself cleaned up. Deal?”

Phil tilts his head to the side, pretending to consider her words, and it can’t be comfortable for his neck, seeing as she’s still holding him to the ground.

“Deal.”

 

* * *

 

Christmas is a time for peace. The holiday season, where families and friends all gather to celebrate, enjoy good food and drink, exchange gifts and appreciate the company of one another. It's a time for laughter, and a time for cheer, and it only comes, one time a year. Phil realises he's stretching things a little far by rhyming in his head, but he just loves Christmas and everything that comes with it.

He hasn't had a chance to celebrate properly in quite some time; he had been packing up his apartment and preparing to move last year, and recovering from a bullet wound the year before that.

It's still too painful to think about December of 1992.

He is fully aware that he and Melinda are currently on active duty, on a crucial mission. It's one that can make or break their careers as agents because Fury might send him back to the Hellhole to spend his days disposing of corpses if he fails. But it doesn't mean they can't have a little holiday spirit while doing their jobs.

Phil envisions decorating their latest safe house with some string lights, maybe a tiny plastic tree.

Melinda takes his words a tad too literally, procuring a bottle of vodka and proclaiming to him that this is all the holiday spirit they really need.

He would have been annoyed if he didn't enjoy her pun so much; whilst Melinda was a jokester, she had a drier sense of humour than most and to hear her make such an awful joke really, well, lifted his spirits.

 

* * *

 

Melinda finds herself once again cooped up inside with nothing to do but listen to Phil babble through the comms as he navigates shopping mall after shopping mall, visiting every pizza place, pet store and coffee joint around.

It's Christmas Eve and she does her best to pass the time by reading through Phil’s detailed outline of the mission. She had skimmed some of the files before, mostly while they were on the road and she had  _ nothing  _ else to do. The majority of what she did know about the mission was learnt through Phil’s physical briefing. As she pulls the first file from the stack, she muses that it's a little sad that she's reached her last resort in terms of entertainment.

She consoles herself with the knowledge that it will probably take her until the New Year to finish looking through everything. The first two files consist only of detailed analysis of the mission reports filed by the strike teams who had hunted Hawkeye in the past year. The reports themselves are sparse, but Phil has made dozens of pages of notes, not only detailing the specs of the mission, but profiling each agent who had taken part, noting how likely they were to act rashly, or use force before considering all other options.

What were the chances he had a complete profile of her written up somewhere?

Melinda isn't sure she actually wants to know.

She concentrates on his opinions of other agents for now, specialists and field agents, all over level three. Phil is likely to never hand these files into administration when the mission is complete. They wouldn't find much use of his humour, though she herself appreciates the little jokes and useless notes, like how many sugars Agent Creswick takes with his morning coffee.

As she continues to pore over the information before her, one thing becomes abundantly clear.

Phil could have had any other specialist on his team, and for some reason that she's not prepared to think deeply into, she was the one that ended up assigned with him.

 

* * *

 

It isn't snowing.

The grass had been frosted over when he left their safe house apartment this morning, and the temperature is low enough for him to be wearing multiple layers.

But the air is sadly clear, and Phil’s disappointment is high.

He makes it to the park in the late afternoon, following a morning of almost being crushed by shoppers eager to finish purchasing things for Christmas, and the fresh air and space is a relief. There is a long winding path that goes from one end of the park to the other and he walks about half way before finding a bench to sit down on, pulling out yesterday's paper to read. The area around him is mostly deserted, the occasional jogger passing by and two families with small children having a good time at the play area.

It would be more fun if there were snowmen to build and snow angels to make he thinks, a tad bitterly.

He flips through the pages slowly, the words a complete blur, focusing more on his surroundings. Melinda had questioned earlier why they were working during the holiday season, given the timeframe he had laid out for the mission.

“Bad guys don't take the holidays off May, so neither can we.”

She had snorted lightly at his statement, and that was that.

The air grows colder as the sun begins to set and Phil checks his watch for confirmation of the time; it’s just past five in the afternoon and almost time for him to head back to the safe house. The walk will take him close to thirty minutes, but it is nowhere near enough to burn off the greasy pizza he had for lunch.

Phil stands slowly, folding the newspaper and tucking it beneath his arm, taking a moment to stretch the muscles in his legs. He’s about to head off when something comes streaking into his vision, and he blinks to make sure he’s not just seeing things.

There’s a dog in front of him, and a pretty big one at that.

There are plenty of stray dogs around the city, but this one is surprisingly clean, with a sleek golden coat. Phil debates for a moment whether it would be a good idea to try and pet the dog - it seems friendly enough, panting and wagging its tail. He reaches his hand out towards it, slowly, cautiously, frowning when it turns away from him.

His reflexes aren’t usually this slow, but he watches blankly as the dog lifts its hind leg, and it isn’t until he feels something soaking through his pants when he realises that he’s just been used as a fire hydrant.

The undignified yelp he releases thankfully goes unheard by the civilians in his vicinity.

“What the hell, Phil. Are you okay?”

He blinks, once, twice, trying to process what has just happened, but the culprit has already bolted, running off into the bushes, presumably to do his business elsewhere. Phil inspects his sodden pant leg with a sigh, and begins the now even more unbearable journey back, the icy cold wind blowing in his face.

“I’m fine,” he murmurs lowly, and he isn’t at all surprised when Melinda doesn’t respond.

 

* * *

 

Phil spends half an hour in the shower when he gets back, enjoying the hot water pouring down around him, the steam thickening the air, and scrubbing the smell of dog from his body. When he exits the bathroom, clean and dry, he finds Melinda sitting cross-legged on the floor of the main living area, warming her hands by the heater. Her smile is gentle when she turns to face him, nothing at all like the wicked smirk she had greeted him with upon his return earlier, after learning of his run in with the evil dog.

“Hey.”

Her voice comforts him in a way that he finds difficult to describe with words; it’s soft and warm and makes him feel safe.

“Hey.”

She looks warm and content, and he wants nothing more than to slump down beside her and just stop functioning, but someone has to make dinner and if either of them want to survive until the New Year, it won’t be Melinda. The television is switched on, but her gaze is on him as he moves around the kitchen, preparing ingredients for a simple but comforting meal - bread and butter, slices of ham, tomatoes, onions and cheese.

Grilled cheese, with a couple of extra ingredients. Just like his father used to make.

The thought no longer brings a wave of sadness over him, but rather, a sense of almost overwhelming happiness, that he can make and share one of his childhood favourites with his closest friend. And it’s not the only family recipe he wants to replicate tonight.

There's an old Christmas movie playing on the television, one he doesn't recognise, but he hums along to the familiar carols as he sets a saucepan and a frying pan onto the stove. The pantry is very sparsely stocked, packed with only the essentials, but the nice thing about longer missions is the fact that they’re able to go out and purchase other items when needed.

Accounting probably won’t like that he’s sprung for high quality dark chocolate, but it fits within the food budget, so at the end of the day, they can’t complain.

Phil is slow and methodical as he cooks, and will admit he spends a little too long on what is essentially a glorified cheese sandwich and chocolate milk, but it's Christmas Eve and this is as good as their feast is going to get.

He doesn't need to call out that dinner is ready, because Melinda appears behind him just as he's plating up, ready to lend a hand. While he ladles out their drinks into mugs, she sets the frying pan in the sink for him, before stealing away with their food for the evening. Phil eyes the dirty utensils for a moment before shrugging; they have plenty of time to wash up later.

With a mug in each hand, he turns towards the dining area, only to find it empty.

Melinda has once again curled up on the floor, her back to the couch, the two plates of food beside her. With a slight shake of his head, he moves to join her, letting out a soft groan as he sinks down to the ground, carefully setting their drinks between them.

They eat in silence, but he cannot help but watch her, studying her features for any reaction, whether it be positive or negative. As usual, her face betrays no emotions. He closes his eyes on the final bite, savouring the taste that takes him back more than twenty years, to the holidays with his parents.

To simpler times.

He bites back a sigh as he opens his eyes once more, snapping out of his imagination and back to reality. It is Melinda who is watching him now, her expression a mixture of amusement and concern. He flicks his gaze down towards her plate and finding it empty, clears his throat, ready to ask for her opinion.

As usual, she beats him to it.

“You could auction off the recipe for this.”

He smirks, nudging her arm with his elbow.

“Hey, secret ingredient. I’m not going to sell out my family recipe.”

She snorts, shaking her head at the mock indignation in his tone, but not prying any further. He doesn’t think it will hurt to tell Melinda - she can’t cook and she can withstand torture. She watches him a little warily as he makes a big show of leaning in towards her, cupping his hands over his mouth and whispering in her ear.

“And if you tell anyone, I’ll have to kill you.”

Melinda actually laughs and he doesn’t know whether or not to feel a little offended that she thinks the notion of him being able to take her down is so hilarious, or happy that she appreciates his joke.

He decides to settle for the latter; it hurts his feelings less that way.

 

* * *

 

It’s close to midnight, they’re each on their third mug of his peppermint hot chocolate and Phil is beginning to feel a little buzzed. If he didn’t know better… actually he does know better, and Melinda definitely spiked it with her vodka.

She’s curled up beside him, knees to her chest, fingers wrapped around her mug, gaze trained on her own hands and she’s the picture of innocence. It’s not an act, but he’s very aware that she has the capability of ending his life with her bare hands.

He is staring at his own drink, swirling the remains of his drink around with a candy cane which is now mostly melted when Melinda clears her throat, and he quickly turns towards her. She isn’t looking at him, but is now staring straight forward and he takes a breath in anticipation of what she might or might not say.

“You could have called any specialists or strike teams in when you reached the end of the mission. You didn't really need me here this past month, Phil.”

Melinda’s voice is softer than ever, and Phil has to actually strain to hear the last few words. She shrugs, taking another sip from her mug, letting out a long exhale afterwards.

“I wanted someone I could trust watching my back, in case things went south. It's why I asked for you.”

Phil realises what he's just confessed a moment after the words have already left his mouth, and he feels himself begin to flush, nervous about whatever reaction Melinda might have. Her smile is wide, filled with amusement, and he knows he’s screwed.

“You asked for me?”

He can’t take back the words, but he doesn’t know how to respond either.

“Thank you.”

Her words are unexpected, but she’s not finished. “I’ll always have your back.”

A warmth spreads through him that neither the heater nor his hot drink could have done and he thinks that maybe life isn’t happy all the time, but it only makes moments like these more special.

He tips his head back against the couch, setting his mug on the floor beside him, content to just relax for a moment. Time passes slowly, but he doesn’t realise it until there’s a weight on his shoulder, and he turns to see Melinda, her eyes closed, looking completely at peace. The clock on the wall beside the television tells him it is now midnight.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispers, to no one in particular.

The curtains are drawn as always, it’s too dangerous to leave them open, but if Phil had gotten a chance to peer out into the night sky the moment the clock struck twelve, he would have seen the first snowflakes fall, each a unique glimmering speck against the darkness that blanketed the world.

 

* * *

 

“I need you with me on this one.”

Phil is standing in the doorway, hands behind his back and looking a little sheepish when Melinda looks up from the newspaper she had pilfered from his room earlier, one eyebrow raised.

“That wasn’t a part of the plan.”

He shrugs.

“Things change. I can brief you after you get changed.”

She narrows her eyes at him and he has the gall to look pleased when he presents her with the package he had been hiding, badly, behind his back. She quickly removes the fabric from the clear plastic bag, shaking it out in front of her and then frowning.

“I am not wearing this.”

Phil laughs and she debates whether it would be appropriate to kick him in the shin right about now.

“It’s not that bad.”

“ _ It  _ is barely a dress. I’ll look like a hooker.”

He tilts his head to one side, shrugging, and this time she does reach out and punches him in the arm. Hard. She glares when he doesn’t react, pretending to be completely unaffected by her hit.

“You’ll look like a girl at a bar. And I’ll look like a guy at a bar. It’ll be fun, I promise.”

Melinda turns the dress around in her hands, cringing when she sees how the back is cut out. If there are wandering hands tonight, she’s going to make Phil pay.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

 

* * *

 

The bar is crowded when Phil makes his way inside, taking a deep breath and falling into character. His sleeves are rolled up, the top three buttons of his shirt undone and there’s a deep frown set into his forehead.

_ An ordinary businessman after a long day at work; looking for a couple of drinks and maybe a little more to help relieve the stress. _

He scans the room, taking in each patron, memorising any and all details he can - it’s made easy when the attention of every man in the room is elsewhere.

Melinda.

She’s sitting at the bar with her back turned to him and he takes a moment to admire her, only because it would be suspicious if he didn’t. The little black dress he had brought along, just in case, fits her perfectly, but it is her hair, falling in loose curls, hiding the bare skin exposed by the cutout of her outfit that he appreciates the most.

He can see she has a drink in her hand as he approaches and he wordlessly sits down on the stool beside her, resting his forearms on the bartop. The bartender is down the other end with a group of his buddies and he nods towards them. Phil shakes his head, waving an arm to let the guy know that he’s in no hurry to be served, and no one will think it’s suspicious that he’s sat down at the bar without ordering a drink, not when there’s an attractive woman to converse with.

Phil doesn’t make the first move. He stays silent, watching her, and after a minute, her lips, painted a shade of blood red, tilt upwards at the corners.

“Hey.”

He leans in closer, smiling back, and finds himself lost in the depth of her eyes for a moment - it’s a little unsettling, the feeling that Melinda can see his deepest, darkest thoughts just like this.

She snaps him out of his thoughts when her hand settles against his thigh, and speaks two words that calm his nerves.

“Long day?”

_ Nothing unusual. No confirmed target. _

Phil nods, resting his hand above hers, subtly shifting it closer to his knee and far, far away from his inner thigh.

“Long year.”

Melinda bites her lower lip, tilting her head downwards and looking up almost shyly at him through her lashes.

“Maybe I can help with that.”

He grins, even though he's cringing on the inside, willing his body to stay calm.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

The words hold a double meaning for him, the promise they had made five years ago at the front of his mind, but he knows better than to mix his professional and personal life.

Melinda doesn't seem to pick up on it anyway. She looks at him and then the glass in her hands, still half full of an amber liquid that Phil can't identify from sight alone, before lifting her drink to her lips and downing it in one go.

He grins, turning and raising his hand to signal the bartender, who claps one of his friends on the shoulder before making his way over to them.

“What can I get for ya?”

Phil reaches into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet as he deliberates on what he should order for Melinda.

“No need for that buddy. Tonight's tab has already been picked up.”

Melinda’s fingers dig into his leg and he tenses, suddenly highly aware of his surroundings once more. He brushes the back of her hand with his thumb and she takes his queue.

“Really? That's so generous, I had no idea. No wonder so many people have been bringing me drinks tonight, if they're free.”

She giggles and the sound is just so odd. Phil wants to tell her that free drinks is definitely not the reason why she’s been approached by every hot blooded male in the room, but chooses to bite his tongue instead.

“Who paid for everything? I'd love to go and thank them.”

Melinda is batting her eyelashes and Phil would be more distracted if he weren't so worried about the deadly assassin who may or may not be in their presence at this very moment.

“Sorry darlin’. I think he left before you got here. Friendly bloke too. Said it was his birthday, wanted to share his good fortune with everyone. You would have liked him; he was impressin’ all the ladies earlier.”

Phil raises a brow and Melinda taps his thigh twice.

_ Will press for details. _

“How so?”

The bartender laughs, shaking his head.

“I'll admit, I was impressed too. It was like nothin’ I've ever seen. He was playin’ darts, and he didn't miss. Not once.”

_ Bingo. _

 

* * *

 

The room is dark when Phil returns in the evening after a long day of doing nothing much at all. He flicks on the lights to their dimmest setting, undoing his tie as he heads towards the bed, trying not to tense as the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Phil wonders if it would be lame to high five himself when an arrow goes flying past him, embedding itself into the wall just above the bed frame. He doesn't even flinch.

He wants to cheer and celebrate that his dumb plan worked but there's a trained killer behind him with a weapon pointed towards his head, so now really isn't the time.

“Hawkeye, I presume.”

Phil turns slowly; he knows this guy isn't going to shoot him, at least not right away, but he doesn't want to run the risk of spooking him, and it gives him a moment to prepare.

There's an arrow pointed at his face, just inches away, and he forces himself to look past it, to study the man he's been chasing for the past few months.

_ White male. Twenties. Smells like coffee and pizza. Can and will probably kill him. _

His initial profile of the guy had been pretty accurate.

“You're a hard man to track down.”

“I can't say the same for you.”

Phil smiles, tilting his head to one side and spreading his hands innocently out. He's got the guy talking, and from the sounds of it, he isn't going to stop.

“You think I wouldn't notice you snooping around all of my favourite hangouts? Visiting the circus where I grew up? You think I wasn't watching you at that bar? I saw you flirting with that hooker.”

Phil’s mouth actually drops open at that last statement and he's on the verge of laughing, but he holds back for just a moment longer, until there's a loud thwack and Hawkeye collapses to the ground, his arrow flying into and destroying the bathroom mirror. Two inches to the left and it would have taken his nose clean off.

He shudders at the thought.

 

* * *

 

It's a little amusing, the thought that S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent strike teams and snipers to take Hawkeye out, only for him to be knocked down so easily.

Melinda flexes her hand while she watches Phil tie their prisoner up to a chair, slipping modified cuffs on both his wrists. She almost can't believe that this is the assassin they've been after for so long, that they've managed to capture him, but she knows the mission isn't done yet.

“What do we do now?”

Phil turns, meeting her gaze with an even heavier one, and she knows what he is thinking before he even says it.

“We can't just kill him.”

They have their orders and Melinda has taken people out before; knows that Phil probably has many kills under his belt by now, but this is not the same. Pulling the trigger is always difficult in some way, but it's a hell of a lot easier when you or your team are under fire, or you're killing someone from a distance.

She isn't sure she has it in her to shoot someone point blank, especially when they're tied up and defenseless, when she can see their face as she does it.

But they don't get to make that call.

“We have our orders, Phil.”

She whips out her gun as she speaks, closing her eyes for a moment as she steps forward, pressing the barrel to the still unconscious man’s forehead, finger hovering on the trigger.

“I can't ask you to shoot him.”

Phil looks guilt ridden, his shoulders sagging, expression pleading with her not to do it, to spare the life of a man with a kill list longer than either of them can comprehend.

“You don't have to ask.”

He pauses, looking so incredibly unsure for a moment, staring into her eyes as she wills her fingers to stop trembling.

“Then, as your superior officer, I command you to lower your weapon.”

Melinda lets out a breath she didn't realise she was holding, slowly dropping her hand. She tucks her gun back into its holster before taking a step towards her left, towards Phil.

“Pull rank on me again, and I'll shoot you,” she says, smirking, the weight on her chest lifting when he pretends to be offended, placing a hand over his heart and gaping at her. They share a laugh at that and it almost feels like all is well for a split second, until they remember the rogue archer strapped to a chair beside them.

“What do we do with him then? We can't just let him go and S.H.I.E.L.D. will find someone else to take him out if we don't.”

It would be easy enough to get rid of him - he's wanted in several countries and they can easily find a cell to hold the guy for the rest of his life. But there is no way he’ll survive in prison - sooner or later S.H.I.E.L.D. would find a way to cross him off.

“I have a terrible idea.”

She can't wait to hear it.

 

* * *

 

His head hurts.

It's the first thought he has as he comes to, if his brain is still functioning enough to have thoughts, given how painfully his head is throbbing, like an inexperienced construction worker is trying to drill through his skull.

He opens his eyes slowly, testing his arms and legs at the same time and sure enough, he's been tied up. It takes a minute for his vision to clear, and when it does, he finds a somewhat familiar face staring back at him.

“You knocked me out,” he accuses, struggling against his bonds.

The woman smirks, but it isn't her that responds.

“To be fair, you did call her a hooker.”

He turns his head and sure enough, the man who had been stalking him for the past few months is there, leaning against the wall in the near darkness.

“Don't sound so smug Phil. It's your fault.”

They begin to argue, and he cannot believe his incredibly bad luck.

Clint Barton, badass arrow guy, defeated by stick in the mud guy in the suit and a hot chick, who are now bickering like an old married couple.

What a terrible way to die.

He clears his throat and they turn towards him in surprise, as if having forgotten he was there, tied up like a turkey at Thanksgiving. It's mildly offensive.

“Are you gonna kill me or what?”

The woman, “May”, raises a brow at him, which is a pretty standard reaction; but “Phil” laughs and Clint wonders if he's one of those guys that look normal but are secretly insane.

“If we wanted to kill you, you'd be dead.”

It's Clint’s turn to raise his eyebrows, not out of shock but rather for the purpose of having a reaction, and his face is the only thing he can really still move.

“Plan A would have been a little messy. The closest radioactive waste pit is two states away, and it would be such a hassle to drag your body there to dispose of the evidence. Plan B, well, that just benefits all of us.”

Clint knows the pair are trying to goad him into choosing the option that doesn't involve death, and to be honest, he doesn't really want to die yet if he doesn't have to. Especially not in such an unglamorous way, strapped to a chair, shot and dumped in neon green goop to melt away.

“What's plan B?”


	10. X

Melinda has crossed off thirteen people in her five and a half years as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and with each kill, one fact becomes increasingly evident.

Experience doesn’t make it any easier.

She has the blood of dozens on her hands, but killing people in the heat of the moment, during a fight, it's not the same. When they have a gun to her head or a knife at her throat; when they're a threat to her team or innocent civilians, she does what needs to be done.

The people that end up dead, they're just a number in the end, a couple of digits recorded in the obligatory mission report, filed away and lost in her memory. It is a tragedy that she does not know who these people are, the ones that have died at her hand, but she knows it's for the best, consoles herself with the knowledge that they were criminals with long histories of illegal activities.

When it comes to her targets, everything is different.

It starts with the mission briefing, the files that field agents have compiled containing every nitty gritty detail about the life that she has been tasked to end. There's the moments leading up to the mission, whether they be hours or days, how different methods of assassination occupy her mind, often leaving no room for any other thoughts. How she loads her rifle, sharpens her knives, picks her poison, each time a calculated choice with backup plans in place should her initial ones fall through.

It's the way she has to watch from a distance, just waiting to make a move that will end their life.

Sometimes that wait is weeks.

 

* * *

 

In November of 1992, Melinda is sent to Yekaterinburg, Russia.

She has a case full of weapons at her disposal, a comprehensive dossier on her target and a partner whose grasp of the local language far surpasses her own ability. Luckily for her, Agent Vasiliev is more than happy to tutor, not that there is much else for them to do while waiting for their mark to show.

They spend days hiding out in the apartment S.H.I.E.L.D had acquired for this mission, instructed by their handlers to lay low and observe from afar. She would rather be doing something useful, taking action on another mission, only being called in when they needed her to take the shot. Sitting still and lurking in silence are both tasks she mastered at a young age, but it's unsettling to wait like this, knowing that she’ll have another man’s blood on her hands at the end, whether that be literally or metaphorically.

“Я убью тебя”.

She repeats the phrase to the best of her ability, letting the words roll off her tongue, and roll around in her mind. Perhaps if she tried to be a tad more guttural as many of the locals did, she would sound a little less like herself and be able to blend in on her next trip to Eastern Europe.

“Молодец.”

The corner of her mouth tilts upwards at the praise from Agent Vasiliev, not a common occurrence from what she has observed of the stoic woman. Melinda has managed to learn much from her partner in the eight days they have been cooped up in an apartment together. She now knows many useful phrases and words in the Russian language, including some that she isn't sure she'll ever get to use; the chances of donkey testicles coming up in everyday conversation being slim to none.

Keen observation of her surroundings is another skill that she’s working to improve, to simply sit and notice things around her, rather than retreat into her inner mind and ignore the sounds, smells and other senses. Melinda has always been a patient person, and training at the academy had only helped her in that respect, but it’s more difficult when she isn’t focusing on a single point to clear her mind. When one simply sits back to watch the world move around them, there are so many things to notice, obscure, unnecessary things that they normally might not.

She spends the rest of her “free time” sitting by the window, just watching the apartment across the street, memorising the monotonous routine or family life. A mother and her young daughter. Melinda absorbs every tiny detail - from the moment they woke up in the mornings, prepared for the day ahead, all the way till the end of the night, when the mother returned to her own room after tucking her daughter in, reading her a story, whispering inaudible words of comfort and brushing a kiss against the child’s forehead.

The scene never fails to warm her heart, bringing her back to memories of her own childhood, on the rare evenings her mother was around long enough to see her before bed. She allows only a second of nostalgia before forcing herself to focus once more, to “be one with the world around her”, as Agent Vasiliev had described it.

It's an incredible learning experience, but does make her wonder how field agents, in particular analysts, could spend so much time just taking in everything around them. Not for the first time she feels a great sense of admiration for Coulson, who happens to be the most observant person she knows. She imagines that if it were him in her place, he would thrive under these conditions. The atmosphere is dull and the routines of those around her even more so, but she has no choice other than to lie in wait until her target makes his inevitable appearance.

Of course she isn’t looking forward to murdering someone, but the faster it is the done, the faster she can move on to her next mission. It is murder, no matter how S.H.I.E.L.D. tries to sugar coat it. They are protecting the world by taking the lives of those who seek to harm it, but people are dying nonetheless, and it’s a shame that they have to resort to this.

But with some criminals, there are no second chances. No life long jail sentences or correctional facilities. There is no amount of information they could trade, or good they can do, to make up for their past actions, and once it gets to that, their fate is sealed, and their fate is death.

Not for the first time Melinda wonders if this is how she might spend the rest of her life, stealing secrets, killing those with more blood on their hands. She tries not to think of the future often, to let herself imagine and hope for a day that might never come. The job always comes first, and this job is dangerous. It isn’t death itself she fears, because death is inevitable. It’s the uncertainty of what comes after death, or what might happen to those around her when she is gone. She was trained to protect, and no matter her stubbornness, she knew she could not do so from beyond the grave.

Despite the morbid thoughts that often clouded her mind, she still tries to have a positive outlook on the future. Her mother had found happiness. Whilst the relationship between her parents had crumbled, they both still had her; proof that even spies could find normality in their lives.

She wants that.

The world around them is filled with unknown terrors, but she thinks that having something, someone to come home to at the end the day, someone to support her. She’s only twenty-seven, barely, and these dreams, plans really, are so far off. Maybe ten, fifteen years off at this point. It’s too early to let them be anything but figments of her imagination.

Her focus now is to do what is right, to concentrate on her work and save as many lives as possible. If that meant having to make the hard calls, to do as ordered and cross their enemies off, well, she couldn’t say that Peggy hadn’t warned her about the sacrifices she would have to make as a member of their organisation.

No one knew sacrifice quite as well as Peggy.

Even now Melinda can’t fathom the thought of losing someone that meant everything to her. Someone that meant as much to her, as Steve Rogers had meant to Peggy Carter.

She isn’t sure it’s possible.

 

* * *

 

Melinda’s first reaction to their mark finally showing up on the afternoon of Christmas Eve is relief. Her entire body sags and she releases a quiet sigh, because it’s taken a month and her patience had worn thin in that time. She only allows herself a moment of this, before straightening up, squaring her shoulders and schooling her mind, preparing herself for the task ahead.

Vasiliev is hovering in the shadows behind her, co-ordinating with their handler and the clean up crew. Everything would be so much easier if they could only lure their mark out to a secluded place and kill him there, disposing of his body would be a breeze. Alas, they have no choice but to snipe him from a distance in the dark of the night and remove all traces of evidence before discovery.

She's been waiting to pull the trigger for twenty nine days, but the last five hours feel like an eternity. Melinda keeps her hands steady the entire time, training her gaze through the scope of her rifle, keeping focused and listening to only the steady beat of her own heart. The scene unfolding before her is almost touching, a man returning home to his wife and daughter during the holiday season, but she forces herself to ignore the happy family reunion and remember the images of destruction and chaos that were shown during their initial mission briefing.

_Everyone has a weakness, something you can use to bring down even the strongest of men and women. You can’t let it work against you though, can’t let it stop you from doing what needs to be done, because then, it becomes your weakness._

She tries in vain to keep these words on her mind as the afternoon fades into evening, as she readies herself to pull the trigger, but it’s easier said than done. The rifle is aimed, and she Vasiliev nods in her direction as the window is opened, the wind carrying in the falling snow. A flake lands on the tip of her nose just as the sound of glass shattering can be heard in the distance, and the shadow of their target crumbles to the ground.

The next five minutes happen almost in a blur.

All of their supplies have already been stowed for a quick getaway, and all that’s left to do is for Melinda to disassemble her weapon before they make a hasty exit, heading in separate directions. Vasiliev tows all of their supplies to the rooftop where their extraction team is waiting, while Melinda meets with the clean-up crew at their inconspicuous van parked on the street. She dumps her gear into the back while five agents clamber out, and she’s pretty sure anyone looking at their window at half past eleven on Christmas Eve might find the presence of half a dozen figures robed in black suspicious, but S.H.I.E.L.D.’s science division has not yet been able to develop devices that allow for travel via teleportation.

They manage to slip up to their target’s apartment undetected, and once again Melinda is disappointed but not surprised by the lack of proper security, especially in an upscale place like this. The other agents hover behind her as she unlocks the door, and they move forward as planned.

They have exactly seven minutes to get in and out, and everything goes as planned for the first thirty two seconds, as Melinda enters with three agents at her back, the other two keeping watch and securing a clear exit route towards the roof. The apartment is dark but they find their mark crumpled on the floor just outside the master bedroom, his wife still sound asleep in bed. Not even the building collapsing could rouse her at this point, not with the dosage of concentrated sleep inducing chemicals they had slipped into the milk. Mother and daughter each had a glass before bed in the evening.

Their mark was of course, lactose intolerant.

Melinda follows that train of thought as the other agents begin to replace the broken window, clearing up the shattered glass. Her gaze lands on the sippy cup filled with milk on the countertop, sitting next to a box of children’s medicine just seconds before the little girl comes into view, face pale and clammy even before she sees her father’s body, unmoving, bleeding out into the carpet.

The child’s mouth drops open in a wordless scream, tears already streaming down her reddened cheeks and Melinda can hear the agents behind her turn around in alarm. In any other situation they would knock out any witnesses, but there is no way she’s laying a hand on a child, or letting anyone else do it for that matter.

She surges forward, picking up the girl in her arms, swiping the sippy cup from the counter and heading for the bedroom, leaving the rest of the team to deal with the mess. The girl is crying, yelling for her Papa, and Melinda can’t quite make out the rest of whatever else she is saying. When she tries to set her down on her bed, two little arms cling to her, and it takes a moment to extract herself from the child’s surprisingly firm grip.

“Tell the kid her father is sick and they’re doctors here to take him away and make everything better.”

Melinda almost robotically repeats the phrases Vasiliev is saying, and the childish innocence is shining bright in the girl’s eyes as she nods and accepts the cup of milk being offered to her. Sitting and waiting for the girl to finish her drink is painful. It breaks something within Melinda that she didn’t quite realise was there, but eventually the cup is drained and the child slumps back against her pillows.

“Is the problem taken care of?”

It’s their commanding officer’s voice in her ear this time, and she mutters out a quick “Yes, sir” before leaving the room, refraining from looking back at the sleeping child.

A child who had just witnessed the aftermath of her father’s assassination.

The knowledge that she is responsible for scarring this girl for life has a heavy weight settling over her chest, a barrage of dark thoughts rolling around in her mind. Things only get worse as they make their escape, and it’s almost difficult to breathe by the time they board the S.H.I.E.L.D. jet.

Melinda can already anticipate the nightmares that will haunt her in the days to come. She needs to stop them before they can begin, to clear her mind and concentrate on the important things.

Emotions create distractions, and those kinds of distractions get you killed.

She can't let her emotions control her.

The only way to do that is to find a different kind of distraction, the kind that will take her mind off things. Her mind immediately drifts to an excitable voice rambling on about Captain America, and she realises that it’s been nearly two years since she last saw Phil Coulson. He’d been wheeled off to medical to check for serious injuries while they wrapped her in heating blankets and made sure she wasn't hypothermic.

They made a good team.

She wonders if she can get Peggy to pull some strings and have them assigned together. Maybe she and Coulson can finally get that drink from way back when - two and a half years is a long wait after all.

 

* * *

 

Phil is skilled in a number of areas as a field agent, but interrogation is not one of them.

He’s usually the guy sitting behind the two way mirror, doing an analysis on the subject while other agents handle things. Everyone plays to their strengths, and S.H.I.E.L.D. gets the information they need, so at the end of the day, everyone is happy.

Things are a little bit more difficult out in the field when they have limited supplies and manpower, and he resorts to challenging Melinda to a game of roshambo to get his way out of it. She punches him hard in the arm when his paper covers her rock, and he knows it’s going to hurt for days. He can’t help but grin as she begrudgingly drags a chair over and sits down opposite Hawkeye, who is bent over drinking lukewarm coffee through a straw.

He’s still tied up, arms and legs bound, because they aren’t stupid enough to leave an internationally wanted criminal free to roam around, but they’re not inhumane enough to deny him basic food and drink either.

“Uhh, before you guys make me tell you all my deepest darkest secrets, there's something I gotta do.”

Melinda frowns, pointedly staring in Phil’s direction, and he knows what's running through her mind. They both immediately tense, on edge about what might happen next. Phil’s hand is hovering over his gun, locked and loaded on the bed beside him, ready to shoot to maim if need be.

“I gotta pee.”

Phil eyes the back of Hawkeye’s head suspiciously, wondering if this might just be a ruse to fool them into releasing him. There’s no way they can do that, not after the effort they had made to catch him. Though there is every possibility that he's not lying, given the three cups of coffee he's already downed, and maybe this had been his plan all along. Either that, or Phil’s exhaustion is making him paranoid.

“I'll do it in a bottle if you want but either way one of you will have to touch my junk.”

A smirk begins to form on Melinda’s face, and Phil is pretty certain that winning a dozen rounds of roshambo will not get him out of this one.

“You're a young man. I'm sure you can hold it in while I ask you a few questions. The faster we get through, the sooner you can use the bathroom. I'll escort you myself.”

Phil tries to make his sigh of relief as quiet as possible, afraid it might be a little premature given that Hawkeye hasn't actually agreed to anything yet, but he hasn't flipped the bird at Melinda so that's a good sign.

He only hopes that they'll be able to extract information from the guy and not end up paying the hotel clean up fees for mysterious stains on their furniture and carpet. After all, S.H.I.E.L.D. is already going to have to pick up that tab for the mirror that is still lying in shards on the bathroom floor.

 

* * *

 

Melinda wakes at close to four in the morning when she feels a hand on her arm. She refrains from tensing, keeping her breathing even as she opens her eyes to see Phil watching her with an almost tender expression.

“My turn to keep watch?”

Her voice is soft, a little rough from sleep and she yawns as she pushes herself upright, subconsciously dragging a pillow to lean against, the wood of the headboard too uncomfortable a surface.

“Yeah. I don't think I can sleep though, so I might just keep you company.”

She can hear the sincerity in his words, but the bags under his eyes and the exhaustion radiating from his every movement tell a different story. They both need a week off after this to just recuperate, get their bodies back to top form after months of unrest. She wants to tell him to go to sleep, to take a break while he can, but part of her is glad for the company.

“And we should probably discuss what we’re going to tell Fury.”

Melinda cracks a smile, patting Phil on the arm in a sympathetic gesture.

“You mean what you're going to tell Fury.”

She laughs at the change in his expression, and he nudges her with his elbow, muttering something about how she made fun of him all the time. It's really not her fault that he's so easy to tease, but she does feel a little bad that Phil is so often victim to her pranks.

It just feels so comfortable, natural even, to mess with him.

“I'm sorry,” she tells him, even though she's only partially sincere, but it's enough to make him smile and hand over whatever he was working on while she was sleeping.

Their fingers brush, but she ignores it, concentrating on the file in front of her, and she finds herself looking at a very well crafted draft of a mission report. It's almost too concise, pages and pages of notes that she is way too tired to read through, let alone comprehend. She flips to the last page and ends up laughing when she sees what he's written.

 _Agent Melinda Qiaolian May incapacitated the target, and following a brief interrogation which included denying said target use of the facilities, she and I made the decision that Mr. Clinton Francis Barton’s skills would be of better use to S.H.I.E.L.D. as an asset_.

She snorts at the details he's chosen to include, but makes the decision to nag him about something else.

“Really Phil? Middle names? I don't see you including yours here.”

He tries to snatch the pages from her grasp, pouting when she holds them out of his reach.

“There's nothing wrong with a little bit of detail. And for your information, it's not included because it's classified.”

Melinda resists the urge to dig her fingers against the bruise on his arm from where she had punched him earlier, not wanting to injure him any further. She does drop his paperwork on the floor, listening to the sound of his affronted gasp as the file hits the ground with a soft thump.

“We can deal with it in the morning. You should sleep, Phil. You've earned it.”

She watches as his shoulders sag, as his eyelids droop and he shuffles down beneath the covers, finding a comfortable position to sleep in.

“We should have his DNA tested when we get back to headquarters. I still think he has abilities of some sort, no one’s aim is that good,” he mumbles as he pulls the sheets over his shoulders, turning his head on the pillow to gage her reaction.

“You've met people on The Index before, we both have. He doesn't seem to fit the bill.”

Phil sighs and she thinks he's rather like a child, trying to delay his bedtime by chattering on about one thing or another.

“What if he has super enhanced vision that lets him zoom up on his targets? Oh, or if he can see the future and know how to aim to never miss.”

Melinda rolls her eyes as Phil prattles on, his voice eventually growing softer, his words slurring. Whether consciously or not, he ends up dozing off on his side, facing her, his arm brushing against her thigh. His slumber is silent, peaceful, almost relaxing to watch.

Clint, whose name she is not yet used to after calling him Hawkeye for three months, is quite the opposite, both snoring and drooling in his sleep. He had dozed off before she did after they bound him to the chair for a second time, having let him loose to relieve himself under her supervision as she had promised.

She's never held a gun to a man’s head while listening to him pee, but she's not sure that's something that will come up again, even with her career choice.

Phil shuffles closer to her in his sleep, and she normally doesn't like having people in her personal space, but she doesn't have it in her to push him away. The expression he wears is a mirror of the one she saw earlier, when he had come to sit beside her towards the end of the interrogation, to speak with Clint.

_“I've seen your kill list, I know the type of people that you choose to take out. You're not a bad person and I think you could do a lot of good as an agent.”_

He had been so sincere in that moment, but the words that Clint had responded with hit them both hard.

_“You and May were sent to kill me. Your agency takes people out. We’re no different. You just have a badge that lets you get away with it.”_

Melinda had been frozen in that moment, not knowing how to respond, not even knowing how to react, but Phil had remained as calm as ever, and somehow she had gained even more respect for him.

_“But we’re not going to kill you. We’re taking the opportunity to make a different call, to give you a second chance to change your life and maybe someone else's somewhere along the line. So you'll still be sent to take out bad guys, but everything we do, everything S.H.I.E.L.D. does, is in the name of protection.”_

She knew everything that their organisation stood for, the importance of each and every one of their actions, but to hear someone say so with such conviction, it had been a new experience for her.

Even now, with Phil sound asleep beside her, the words resonate in her mind. She knows that others might not agree, but to her, Phil Coulson is the embodiment of what a good agent should be.

From the tales Peggy has told her, she thinks that Captain America would agree.

 

* * *

 

It takes Phil two hours of pacing around the hotel room, wearing holes in the carpet and the soles of his shoes, before he plucks up the courage to put in a call to Fury. He’s incredibly nervous, afraid for how his former supervising officer might react. The man is expecting a body bag, not a twenty five year old, pizza devouring, coffee addict with a sarcastic streak.

His call is rerouted several times, as per SHIELD standard protocol, and it's another seven minutes and twenty eight seconds before there’s a click on the other end of the line.

“Three months with no progress report Coulson. Really? I was ready to declare you MIA.”

Phil laughs nervously, scratching the back of his head with one hand, his palms growing sweaty despite it being winter.

“To be fair sir, I didn't have much to report before today.”

He pauses, waiting to see if Fury has a response for him, and when there's only a quiet hum of disapproval, he continues.

“I'm going to need extraction. For three.”

This is it, the moment his career ends. He’ll probably end up being demoted so far down that he’ll be assigned back to the clean up crews, spend the rest of his life as a glorified garbage man. Or worse. The wait this time is somehow even worse, because for the first time, Phil can’t quite anticipate what Fury might say.

“I gotta say, Coulson, I'm surprised at you.”

This can’t be good.

“Uhhh… sir?”

“I didn’t think you had it in you, disobeying S.H.I.E.L.D. regulations like this. I’m gonna be straight with you Phil, I’ve always suspected there was something going on with you and Agent May, but I didn’t expect this. It’s all moving a little fast don’t you think? You do know that you can’t return the kid if things don’t work out?”

Phil freezes, a frown slowly forming as the words sink in. Regulations, May, kids? He can’t be sure if Fury is serious or messing with him, but he’s really hoping for the latter. If the man is making jokes then he can’t be _that_ pissed. Either way, Phil can't quite formulate a response to the man’s questions and is stuck standing in the living area of the hotel room, slack jawed.

He is dimly aware of the fact that Fury is speaking, but can only concentrate on the look of amusement Melinda has, looking up from her silent game of blackjack with Clint. They've both been there, just listening in on his conversation, which is not ideal seeing as Clint is still technically a criminal and they're revealing S.H.I.E.L.D. secrets by conducting a call with him present.

Sometimes, they just don't have any other choice.

Phil doesn't know how much time has passed, but Melinda has now abandoned her hand, slapping the cards down onto the coffee table, revealing a King of Spades and Ace of Hearts. She's at his side in the blink of an eye and has weaselled the phone from his grip, pressing her hand beneath his chin presumably to close his mouth.

He studies her expressions as she listens to Fury speak, almost takes a step back out of nerves when she raises an eyebrow, and considers making a run for it when her lips curve up into a smirk.

“It was unexpected sir. Yes, earlier than we thought.”

Phil has no idea what is happening, but it cannot be good.

“January 12th. His name is Clint. No, he's very quiet, but very fussy and eats a lot.”

Melinda’s grin grows as she speaks, and for a woman with so much control, she looks dangerously close to bursting out into laughter. Fury is going to kill them all for this. He has half a mind to take the phone back before she can do further damage, but her hand is still on him, and he has no intention of winding up with a broken neck.

That would no doubt end their mission on a low note.

 

* * *

 

When Fury greets them back at headquarters with a grim expression and a “Congratulations, It’s A Boy” balloon, Melinda loses it and Phil is pretty sure that they’re toast. In the thirteen seconds it takes to close the distance between them, he comes up with a dozen possible outcomes for their actions, each more terrifying than the last.

His palms are clammy and he almost feels a little sick, but knows deep down that he made the right choice. Maybe not for S.H.I.E.L.D. and not for Fury, but he did right thing by his conscience. Melinda had agreed and supported his choice, and she still stood by him, despite being much less concerned with the situation than he.

“Sir.”

It’s all he can say, just waiting for the fallout, the consequences of his actions, for disobeying orders. He cannot breathe as Fury hands him the balloon, reaching forward and gripping the string between his sweaty fingers.

“Congratulations.”

Melinda and Clint burst into laughter and Phil has a feeling that his life has changed for the foreseeable future. For better or for worse, well, that remains to be seen.

 

* * *

 

Being a Level Three Agent has its perks, the main upside being that he has the opportunity to know more operational secrets now. There's also the bigger office space shared with less agents, which is conveniently located one floor up from his old one.

He's probably also more likely to be kidnapped on missions and tortured for information, but they were trained for that back at the Academy, so he's not too stressed. Not that he's particularly relishing the thought of being put through physical or psychological pain for a few government secrets.

At the end of the day, Phil is enjoying his promotion. It sure beats being demoted, and he has more opportunities now to use the skills that he's most adept at, to participate in missions that were previously considered too “high risk” for rookies. His life has most definitely improved for the better within the past few months, and as much as he hates to admit it, everything links back to his success in capturing “The Amazing Hawkeye”.

Clint loves that alias. He swears he has a tattoo of it somewhere, but Phil’s never seen it, nor does he ever want to see it. Of course, he also thinks that it gives him an air of mystery, and elevates his status to make his enemies quiver with fear. Luckily for everyone else at S.H.I.E.L.D., Phil included, he's chosen to stick with just “Hawkeye” as a code name.

Phil feels a sense of pride about it all, the fact that Clint isn't just “Hawkeye” anymore. He's also Clinton F. Barton, S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent, Level One. There's credit to be claimed somewhere, and while Phil doesn't do it outright, deep down he knows he's accomplished something good.

There's one less killer loose on the streets now, one more man fighting the good fight, and Phil thinks that no matter what he manages to achieve in the future, he’ll remember the choice he made that day. It joins a series of other decisions he's made in his life, ones that have led him on this path that he's heading down, and though he's had some regrets along the day, he wouldn't change it for anything.

Even if that means Clint eating him out of house and home.

“I'm still growing!” is the other man’s only response when Phil comments on his food intake, and he's pretty much given up on trying to get rid of him at this point.

It's nice to have a buddy to hang around with that isn't a complete jackass, or a tattletale that might report his “off the records” apartment back to their superiors at work.

For some reason beyond his control, Phil trusts Clint. He doesn't think that he's in danger or anything by finding a friend in the guy, despite the fact that Clint was trying to kill him less than three months ago.

That's all in the past now.

Which is why they're hanging out at his place after work, eating pizza and drinking beer, instead of Phil going home to an empty apartment and making dinner for one. He doesn't feel quite as lonely as he did year ago.

The thing he finds most amusing about the entire situation is that Clint lives only ten minutes away, and has been for the past three years. He and Melinda had chased this guy across the country and back again, using a huge supply of shield resources, when the possibility of Phil bumping into him on the street was just as likely.

Though he does feel guilt for the “wasted” supplies, he's glad for the time spent on that mission, the time spent with Melinda. She’s an incredible agent to work with, a good friend to be acquainted with, and Phil considers himself lucky to be a part of her life, and to have her as a part of his.

Clint says that he's a “sentimental blockhead”, one who needs to get out there and make some more friends, and Phil doesn't have it in him to point out that they're not so different in that respect. They’re just two lonely agents who don't have much else outside of work.

Phil doesn't dare imagine if his life might be this way in another decade or two.

 

* * *

 

Despite them being practically neighbours, it isn’t until mid-Spring that Clint begrudgingly invites Phil over to his apartment, a rather run down looking building at the edge of Bedford-Stuyvesant. Clint is practically skipping along, a six-pack of beer in his arms while Phil follows almost clumsily behind, weighed down by four large pizzas. Hanging around Clint is great, but it’s not good for his waist-line or cardiovascular system for that matter; the amount of grease they consume is definitely enough to clog up one’s arteries.

Phil tries not to trip over his feet as they trudge up the stairs to the second floor, stopping in front of a door marked “H”.

_Typical._

He prepares himself for the worst as Clint tries to get the door open, the lock having seemingly been altered for extra security. If the interior of his home is anything like the man, it's sure to be covered in stains and reek of pizza and coffee. For all his precision and attention to detail in the field, Clint was kind of a slob when it came to basically everything else.

With a couple of curses and forceful pounding, the door finally creaks open, and Phil finds himself staring at a what appears to be a landfill. There is rubbish littering every inch of the floor, so much that Phil can't even be sure there's a floor under all that mess. He tries his best to hold his breath and not step in anything that could attack him, wading through the assortment of junk in his path before reaching a fairly uncluttered coffee table and setting down the four pizzas Clint had insisted on.

There’s not much in the way of furniture, which might explain why Clint has left his belongings all over the floor, and the only place to sit seems to be on the tattered up couch by the coffee table, which is currently occupied by a pile of dirty laundry. He doesn’t really have much of a choice; it’s either the couch or the floor, and the former seems to be the lesser of two evils by far.

“Ehh, I wouldn’t sit there if I were you, unless you want a sharp spring up your backside.”

Phil freezes, inches away from meeting his doom; death by couch spring is not a glamorous way for a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent to go, and quickly straightens up, wiping his palms off on his jeans.

“Do you have anything in this apartment that won’t kill me?”

Clint snickers, turning from where he has finally managed to once more secure the lock on his door, looking pointedly towards his stash of weapons on the far side of the room. If Phil had to hazard a guess, he would say that they’re the only things that have been properly organised in the entire apartment.

“We can eat in my room, you clean freak.”

Phil tries not to take offense - after all, Clint isn’t wrong about his need for cleanliness, and penchant for constant organisation. It’s possible his actions could be misconstrued as “freaky”.

Still, he huffs lightly and bends over to retrieve the boxes he had set down, following Clint over to his bedroom, trying not to trip over on the account of barely being able to see where he is stepping. The atmosphere is surprisingly calm around him, and Phil is somewhat lulled into a sense of complacency, feeling safe about his surroundings, despite the less than pleasant odour in the air as they move through the room.

He supposes he should have expected the false sense of security to wear off the moment Clint sends him a particularly sly grin before throwing open his bedroom door. The entire room is sparse, mostly unoccupied, which makes the figures on the sole piece of furniture, a surprisingly comfortable looking bed, even more noticeable.

“Hey, Phil.”

If this were a movie, he would have probably dropped the boxes in his arms and gaped in shock at the presence of Melinda May. Fortunately, they're in reality, so all he does is blink in silence, barely reacting as Clint takes the pizza from him and shoves him none too gently towards the bed, kicking the door closed behind them. He cannot believe that Melinda is here, in Brooklyn, lounging on Clint’s bed like she owns it, a hairy golden pillow on her lap. She normally dropped in on him when she was in town, or at least left him a message to let him know she had been around. To be honest, Phil had kind of gotten used to her random visits, sometimes breaking into his apartment even when he was away, just to add to _their_ map. He's surprised, not in the pleasant sort of way, that she's here at Clint’s apartment.

“Wha- May, what are you doing here?”

Phil is sure there are a million reasons for her presence, though he doesn’t think anything will rid him of the bitter taste in his mouth. He can see her lips moving as she answers his question, but his attention is drawn downwards, as something in his peripheral vision shifts.

He lowers his gaze, until it lands on the lump of golden fluff occupying Melinda’s lap, and it takes him a few seconds to process all the facts, but he's quite appalled the moment he does.

“You peed on me.”

Phil narrows his gaze at the dog as it turns to face him, shuffling back a little as it growls, baring its teeth in his direction. Melinda, the traitor, continues to pet the beast, who appears to have no aversions to her affections, and while Phil isn't surprised, he feels a little betrayed.

“How long have you known?”

She laughs, as does Clint, and Phil gets the distinct sense that he doesn't quite belong with this duo of pranksters, this team of trouble makers. The dog seems to take pity on him though, leaning forward and resting its head on his knee. He gingerly gives it a scratch behind the ear, trying to keep up his frown. It doesn’t matter if the little guy is kind of cute, not after it treated his leg as its personal bathroom.

Clint hands him a beer, before passing one over to Melinda, and she gives him a smile as she twists off the cap. Just the image of her lips tilting upwards at the corners is enough to bring him out of a sullen mood. Perhaps this isn’t so bad. Change is always uncomfortable, but it's also inevitable, and there's nothing he can do about it but learn to adapt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update for a while. I'm taking a break to work on other stories :)


	11. XI

Though she is reluctant to admit it, Melinda often finds herself alarmed by how quickly she has adapted to having someone new in her life, a permanent presence, akin to a thorn in her side. She's quite used to meeting new people, having them fall in and out of her everyday routine so quickly that she barely has a chance to form an attachment to them, cycling through acquaintances and casual sexual partners faster than she cares to keep track of. What she isn't accustomed to, however, is having people who stick around for long, easily being able to count on one hand the people she might willingly put her trust in.

She never anticipated that an ex-vigilante, her very own former target, would grow to become a constant companion, one that she welcomed, and in such little time too.

Clint is the younger brother she always wanted growing up, and she now knows to be thankful that she never had. He's loud and messy and comes pretty close to “pulling her pigtails”, making a game of tugging on her ponytail and declaring himself a master spy each time he is successful. He ceases only when she covers his clothing with itching powder, but retaliates by swapping out her tea for coffee. She has half a mind to commission those taser arrows he’s been speaking of and set them off to shock him in more ways than one.

They eventually come to an agreement that pranks are best played not on each other, but together. It almost seems as though this strange familial bond that is strengthening between them has been there since the day she knocked him out, and has only strengthened with time.

In the beginning, she had no choice but to spend time with him, supervising his interrogation sessions, then his field assessments. She had felt nothing but annoyance at this menial task that the higher ups have assigned her, and wished Phil were there with her to suffer the consequences of their actions. But he was a newly promoted Level Three field agent, busy quarterbacking missions at their New York base, and she's left to babysit alone. It truly was a nuisance at first, practically being benched from her specialist duties, but now, nearing the end of Clint’s period of observation, she realises that they likely intend for him to work as her new partner.

She's not averse to the prospect but does not embrace it either.

It isn't that she thinks they won't work well together, because having seen his dedication and skill, she knows that they’ll make for a successful team-up. As of their last sparring session, he managed to get a couple of hits in, and though her abilities still surpass his in hand to hand combat, he possesses a plethora of other useful talents. They're both serious when it comes to missions, and like letting loose as soon as they're off duty. She can see why S.H.I.E.L.D. is pushing for them to form a partnership.

Clint shares her sense of humour, beyond harmless pranks, and she enjoys spending time with him, truly. Everything that she knows, in her heart, in her mind, all of it says that they'll make for an incredible team-up, lethal out in the field.

Yet something deep down makes her hesitant to accept, to call Clint her partner, when there's someone else she has already bestowed that title upon, at least in her mind.

Phil Coulson has been in her life for close to a decade now, and she knows that without a doubt, theirs is the greatest partnership she will ever be a part of. They're similar in many ways, and opposites in others, a perfect balance. Clint will likely find his ideal other half one day, someone more serious, to keep him grounded, someone guarded, a hard shell for him to crack.

She has a feeling a team-up like that will easily become the stuff of legends.

 

* * *

 

Fury doesn't seem surprised in the least when he learns that Melinda has turned down forming a partnership with Clint. It happens as they're passing one another at the Triskelion, when he asks her questions that the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. surely already knows the answers to. She responds truthfully anyway, and he gives her one of those perplexing stares, likely designed to confuse others while giving himself a chance to ponder on the situation. It makes her wonder for days on end afterwards what on earth had been going through his mind at the time. She eventually comes to the conclusion that trying to understand Nick Fury is a pointless and impossible task and focuses her attentions elsewhere.

Refusing to team up with Clint means getting herself rostered onto a strike team rotation, but she really does not mind it. She thrives in such environments, those that are fast paced, harsh, and unforgiving.

It does not allow for distractions, and she doesn't find herself sorry or bothered in the least when things end with the guy she had been seeing, or rather, sleeping with. Henry had been nice enough, but so incredibly boring, and Samuel, well he was too similar to her, distant and focused on his career. She knows that all these failed relationships have more to do with her issues than the suitability of the men that she has cycled through. It isn't that she doesn't want to have someone to share her life with, but perhaps there’s a reason why things have not been working out. She thinks that maybe she does not try hard enough, always distracted by work or other things, any excuse to keep her relationships from growing too serious.

It's all too possible she lets them fall into ruins because she knows that deep down, she will never truly be happy being with someone who doesn't understand her, who only knows part of her. Yet she cannot allow herself the luxury of being with someone in her line of work.

It's far too dangerous.

That's the exact thought on her mind as an arrow soars past her, puncturing the bullseye on the paper target hanging fifteen feet away. It clatters to the ground after making contact with the back wall, and before she has an opportunity to voice her complaint, there’s a chin resting on her shoulder and a hand on her hip.

“Barton. If you don't remove your hand I will remove it for you. With a dulled knife so as to prolong your pain.”

They both know that she isn't likely to act upon her words, but he's well aware that she's more than capable of doing so. He quickly shuffles back several steps, and his bow is hanging loosely in his hand by the time she’s set her gun down, turning to face him. She's about to tell him how close she was to putting a bullet in his sternum when she realises the bow in his hand is a practice one. He grins, and she doesn't think twice before reaching for it, eager to take a shot or two.

It's always exciting for her to try her hand at different weapons, and having a master teach her only makes it that much easier to learn. Of course, she isn't ever going to compliment Clint by saying so, knowing that his ego will only grow.

He is a patient instructor, corrects her stance and gives her tips, even though they both know she's not likely to ever take archery up as a primary skill. She returns the favour when they're down on the mats together, because every correction can lead to improvement, and when they're out in the field, it can mean the difference between life or death.

She’d rather not see Clint die, especially after all the trouble they had gone to, in finding him, recruiting him and now training him. Attachments are dangerous, but good friends are so hard to come across in their lives, and she doesn’t want to lose this one.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks after his final assessments, Clint tells her that he’s secured a transfer to the New York base. It's hard to hide the smile that forms on her face when he hugs her goodbye and implores her to visit.

She isn't surprised that he’s leaving D.C., especially with the knowledge that he has an apartment in Bed-Stuy. In fact, she was counting on him to do so the moment the opportunity arose. A partnership between them would have kept him close to the Triskelion, and given her one less reason to make frequent impromptu trips to Brooklyn. She now has two.

Well, three, including Lucky.

 

* * *

 

In September of 1996, they're sent on their first mission as a trio.

It's just another day at the office for Phil when he receives the files, dumped on his desk by a grumpy Level One agent who has clearly spent the last week or so slaving away doing grunt work. He doesn't miss those days. His watch tells him that it's almost time for lunch, and he had been meaning to grab a coffee with Alice, Agent Eckhart’s new secretary.

He deliberates for a moment, gaze flicking between his desk and the door, before leaning back in his chair and grabbing for the file, eagerly skimming through its contents. A smile begins to tug at the corner of his lips when he sees Melinda’s name in the assigned specialist's column, but it quickly fades as he scans the next row.

Agent Clint Barton.

Phil likes Clint, he really does. He even considers the guy to be one of his closest friends, despite having known him for less than a year. They spend much of their down time together and mesh well on missions, when Clint is out prowling the city, and Phil is sitting in the back of a van monitoring his every move.

The truth is, it’s the relationship between Clint and Melinda that has him unsettled. He has no doubt that Melinda has many friends, but she’s so reserved and quiet in comparison to Clint’s loud and boisterous attitude, yet she seems to have completely lowered her guard around him.

He can’t quite comprehend it.

Phil isn’t an envious person by nature; there is no point in longing for what he can’t have, or harbouring negative feelings towards those that possess what he considers to be his truest desires. It isn’t their fault that he made choices which have done nothing but lead him away from the life he had imagined for himself during his childhood; he has no one to blame but himself for that.

Yet he can’t help but feel the smallest twinge of something some may call jealousy, when he sees the easy camaraderie that has developed between the pair. They appear to have so much in common despite being so different, and even when the three of them are together, he always feels as though he’s some kind of third wheel. It only grows more intense as time passes by, and Phil knows deep down that he’s the problem.

He knows that he should try harder to maintain these friendships. At the end of the day, he’ll have no one to turn to but them. The life of a spy is lonely; Fury had warned him of that when he first joined, a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old kid who had so few experiences in the world. He thinks back to those times, back in college, when his life was still normal and wonders what became of the people he used to know.

In his mind, they’re safe and happy.

He is too. Being content with everything in the world seems like an impossible task, and even with all the things in life that trouble him, all the bad, there’s still some good. He thinks about it sometimes, lying in bed in the dead of night, staring up at the ceiling and seeing only darkness all around him. It’s in these times when there are no other distractions, that he can focus on all the positive things in his life. The thoughts of his friends, memories of time spent together, are the brightest parts, and he treasures them even more, knowing that there’s little else for him.

“You’d do well to find whatever comfort you can, whenever you can have it.”

The words he had heard repeated by so many agents that were older and wiser than he... they have never seemed truer than now. He knows he has to take whatever he can get, whatever others are willing to give, and enjoy it for as long as he is able to. Phil has already accepted that he’ll likely never have a family, or retire to the coast and live out his days surrounded by peace and quiet. The most probable ending for him is going down in the field someday, protecting the lives of others, as his hero Steve Rogers had once done.

He thinks that would be the most honourable of ways to die.

Death is not an unfamiliar concept to him, it has never been. One by one, members of his family had passed, and every time, he healed from it. The memories of the death of both his parents are still fresh in his mind, even though the pain has faded with time. He still clings to the memories he has of them, keeping them within his heart, never letting go.

“He lives on, through you.”

His mother had said those words to him shortly after his father’s passing, and they still inspire him to this day, to become a man his parents would be proud of.

For a moment, wonders if there will be anyone to remember his name when he’s long dead, anyone to spare him a thought, or if he’ll quickly be forgotten. His musings are morbid, and he thinks his psychiatrist will likely point that out at his next therapy session.

It's a good thing.

He needs to be able to let these feelings out, to voice his concerns and deepest darkest fears, to analyse the ongoings of his own mind. It's healthy for him, and at the end of the day, will make him a better agent.

But until then, he’ll have to keep it all locked up.

It isn’t easy, but he tries his best to push aside all the negative thoughts in his mind, and concentrate on the growing excitement of a new mission. He enjoys planning and running operations, but being out in the field has its own positives - he wouldn't have gone through all that extra training to prepare and qualify himself for field work if he hadn't anticipated appreciating that aspect of the job. To be honest, he very well could have stayed behind a desk, out of the line of fire doing what he did best, observation and subsequent analysis.

He doesn't regret choosing the more difficult path for himself.

Sighing, he reads through the rest of the file, absorbing the details related to their mission, trying to soothe the conflicting feelings in his heart and mind when he sees that he and Melinda have been partnered to go undercover. They haven't worked together since the mission that resulted in Clint, and while he's excited to have such a capable specialist on his team, a good friend to watch his back, he also fears that keeping control of his emotions is growing more and more difficult.

Perhaps it would be easier if he tries to conceal his very mixed up feelings, and put up a front like Melinda is so easily able to do. After all, they’re heading to Vegas, and well, he has an excellent poker face.

It shouldn't be too hard.

 

* * *

 

Phil spends the short flight from New York to Nevada curled up in the driver’s seat of Lola, leafing through the file that their mission commander, Agent Prince, had handed out during their initial briefing the week before. He adds his own notes here and there, having already memorised every single detail. Every operation that they plan, carry out and see through to the end is important, but some have higher stakes than others.

Going undercover to root out potential powered individuals and index candidates ranks among the most paramount of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s missions.

There's no room for error, and he would be lying if he said the events of the upcoming week don’t add to the weight already upon his shoulders.

Keeping to himself and focusing on nothing but the mission is more difficult than he had anticipated, and he suspects both Clint and Melinda would be onto him if they weren't so distracted by each other.

That's probably a good thing.

 

* * *

 

Cheating at casinos is not uncommon.

Melinda can think of thirty-three different methods to do so, just off the top of her head, most of them easy enough for a common criminal to pull off without being caught. Some require a little more sophistication, and a handful, years of practice to master.

None are truly undetectable.

Yet, someone has managed to pull the wool over the eyes of trained experts and pocketing millions over several months. Not only that, but several facilities have reported guest complaints of cash vanishing as well as large amounts going missing from their own stash, despite video surveillance. With all logical possibilities exhausted, the case ended up being handed off to S.H.I.E.L.D., and as a result, she’s been carted off to Vegas to play dress up until they can uncover the truth.

At least Phil seems equally as miserable as she is.

While Melinda isn't usually one to take pleasure in the suffering of others, she does appreciate having someone else around who appears to be dreading this upcoming mission as much as she is. She never anticipated it might be Phil though. He's always the type to get over excited, looking forward to things far more than any normal person should, constantly optimistic even in the face of danger.

She doesn't make mention of it to him, just silently observing the expression of utter despair that he hasn't mastered concealing. It grows more and more unsettling as the week goes by, and by the time they assemble in the hangar bay at their Nevada base, it's as if a dark cloud has formed over his head. He bristles as she moves to stand beside him, and she frowns, realisation dawning that his sour mood is somehow related to her.

It hurts.

Melinda tries to think of what she may have done to upset him; it isn't likely something she’s said, because she hardly says anything at all.

Maybe that's the issue.

She sneaks a glance at him, noting the deep-set crease in his brow, the way his jaw was locked, and she feels a sense of despair, not knowing how to proceed.

It's not a familiar feeling for her.

She stands at attention as their commander gives her orders and in the blink of an eye, their group disperses, heading off to their stations to prepare for the mission ahead. Melinda lingers, noticing that Phil hasn't moved an inch, and she's so focused on him that she nearly jumps when someone drapes an arm around her.

Nearly.

“Hey Mel, I'll see you tonight.”

Clint gives her a tight squeeze, only letting go when she reaches over and pinches him, letting out a loud squeal of indignation at her touch. He ruffles her hair in retaliation, and her only response is to kick him in the shin, just hard enough to leave a faint bruise, and it’s enough to get him to leave her alone. She turns back towards Phil and finds herself staring at his retreating figure, his strides long and purposeful, but slow enough for her to catch up to.

He doesn’t even spare her a glance when she comes up beside him, and they make their way back to the jet and Lola in almost complete silence, their footsteps making barely a sound against the concrete floor. Their luggage is still aboard and they’ll have to change before leaving here, slip into new clothes.

Slip into a new personality, a false one.

Melinda wonders if Phil might stop ignoring her then, while they’re once again masquerading as a couple, hopelessly infatuated with one another. She thinks about what she might have to do, what her persona might have to do, to garner a reaction from him. Perhaps an emotional speech, a heated kiss, or a passionate embrace?

She hopes it doesn’t have to come down to that, hopes that things will work out before they’re playing other people, hopes that it’s nothing serious. Most of all, she hopes that he’s okay and that he’ll choose to open up to her, as he has done in the past.

His rambling is excessive at times, but the world is far too silent without his voice.

 

* * *

 

Phil is all smiles as they proceed through checking in at the hotel, but the moment they’re in the privacy of their suite, his carefree expression vanishes, replaced with the same frown from before, and Melinda has had enough. He’s clearly distracted, bothered by something, and she’s worried.

Not just because she fears a lack of concentration could get them all killed, but because he’s her friend, her… her partner, not on paper of course, but in her heart.

He begins rifling through something in his bags, and she triple checks that the door is properly locked behind them, before storming over towards him. He looks to her in shock when she grabs his arm, dragging him over to the bed with an iron grip, forcing him to sit down beside her.

“What’s up with you?”

Part of her is scared to hear his answer, but the fear is insignificant in comparison to her curiosity. She needs to know what's bothering him. He doesn't speak, and she increases her pressure on his arm, her fingers digging into the sleeve of his shirt.

“Phil.”

He finally turns to look at her at the sound of his name, and she can clearly see the conflict in his eyes. His gaze darts to where they’re connected, then back up to her face, meeting her firm stare, and his shoulders slump.

“I’m sorry.”

Phil looks to be almost in anguish as he speaks, and as usual, she doesn’t know what to say. Comfort isn’t her strong suit, at least not verbally - it’s really more of Phil’s thing. He always seems to know exactly the right thing to say to make light of a horrible situation, always knows how to make others feel better.

She’s speaking from personal experience of course.

He doesn’t elaborate any further, and very reluctantly, she clears her throat, moving her hand from his lower arm to his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze before she speaks.

“I know I don’t say much, but I’m always willing to listen. I hope you know that. Always, even if you just want to talk about Captain America, even though I can’t promise I won’t fall asleep.”

Phil doesn’t even crack a smile.

But he does speak, and that's all that she had hoped for.

“I'm trying not to get distracted. It's… it isn't easy.”

She shakes her head slightly, releasing his shoulder and folding her hands in her lap, giving him her full attention, letting him know through her actions that he can tell her anything, without fear of judgement.

He does just that.

For the next two hours she just sits beside him and listens as he pours his heart out, mumbling about an assortment of different things on his mind, ranging from a light hearted tale about a Captain America collectible he restored the week before, to much darker events, like the death of his parents and his fear of failing others.

She can see it in the way that his shoulders slump and the light returns to his deep blue eyes that he's said all he can say, and they really should have spent the little “free” time they had discussing the mission, but she's rather glad he relented and confided in her.

“Thank you,” he tells her after a moment of silence, and they share soft smiles that mean more than any words could ever convey.

 

* * *

 

They've developed a sort of routine when it comes to changing for missions. Melinda always disappears into the bathroom with her things, leaving Phil to lounge around for about an hour before he even has to begin thinking about getting ready.

He spends close to thirty minutes just lying on the bed, his face buried into the cushions that feel close to what he imagines clouds must be like, emptying his mind and allowing his body to relax for a moment. His right shoulder and left knee still ache, reminders of the impromptu fist fight he'd gotten himself into before back up showed on his last mission, and he hopes whatever happens in the following week won't aggravate the injuries and add to his pain.

Knowing Melinda, she’ll probably be able to take down half their enemies before he even has a chance to draw his weapon. That's only one of the many things that he's in awe of when it comes to her.

He listens as the shower stops running and waits for the hair dryer to be switched on before he drags himself up from the bed to go and get changed. There are half a dozen garment bags discarded on the couch in the sitting area, and he chooses one at random, pulling out a dark suit. Judging by the outfits he had seen others wearing in the lobby earlier, he thinks they'll be a little overdressed.

Exactly as their commanding officer had planned.

They need to attract the attention of whoever is causing problems in the area, and confirm their identity, proving their dishonesty, before further action can be taken. What better way than to show up, flaunting your money and betting big.

He's just a little bit sceptical about the bow tie though. Truth be told, he has absolutely no idea how to do one up. Before today, they had never been a necessity - normal ties with Windsor knots always accompanied his carefully pressed shirts, suits and polished shoes.

He holds the fabric in his hands, looking over his shoulder at the bathroom door and wondering if this is yet another skill Melinda has mastered over him.

 

* * *

 

It's definitely cliche to say, but Phil feels as though all the air has been drawn from the room when Melinda finally makes an appearance, a scowl on her face. For the first time ever he's been rendered speechless, his head empty of all thoughts, every important mission detail clouded over by the image of her.

He had seen her pick out the red gown from the corner of his eye when she had disappeared into the bathroom to change, what feels like an eternity ago, but he doesn't think that even his mind could have conjured up such a vision, not that he spends a significant amount of time thinking about these things.

That would be unprofessional.

And creepy.

Nevertheless, he pauses for a moment to truly appreciate whoever had designed the dress and chosen it for her to wear, for he has only one word to describe it - perfection.

When he had snuck a glance earlier, he had noticed only the red colour, but now he sees that the shade is an exact match for Lola and that several different fabrics had been arranged together to create a masterpiece.

An intricate lace pattern covers her arms and shoulders, connected to a bodice where the vines, leaves and roses continue atop a bed of silk. The skirt is plain in comparison but flows like a river as she makes her way towards him, and his eyes are subconsciously drawn to the slit up the side, seeing the bare skin of her thigh and trailing down until his gaze falls upon the impossibly high heels she is wearing.

He has no doubt of her ability to kill a man dressed, whether that be by cutting his throat or stopping his heart at the sight of her.

"Next time, I'm playing the dealer. If S.H.I.E.L.D. wants a distraction, they can make Clint squeeze into a dress instead. I seem to recall that purple is his colour."

She wrinkles her nose slightly as she speaks, clearly annoyed at the situation, and he laughs, acutely aware that she might hit him for it.

"Can you do me up? I can't quite reach."

Phil snaps out of his fit of amusement and realises Melinda's hand has been pressed just below her neck, presumably to hold her dress up and he nods, a little shakily, willing his hands not to tremble.

She turns when she is directly in front of him, and he catches the faint scent of roses before he stops breathing altogether. For a moment, everything is silent, and then the familiar thundering of his heartbeat begins pounding in his ears once more. He exhales slowly, forcefully blinking his eyes several times, trying to focus.

It's a little difficult to concentrate on anything other than the expanse of bare skin just inches from his fingertips, and as a result, it takes him three tries to get the clasp hooked. He hopes against all odds Melinda hasn't noticed, but it's a futile wish because he doesn't think there's much she doesn't notice.

"Thank you."

He wills himself to keep a straight face when she turns to face him once more, wants to hide away when he sees the playful smirk on her face, knowing that he's probably just embarrassed himself once more. She reaches out, laying a hand on his chest while leaning in towards him, and he knows she must be able to feel his heart racing beneath her palm. He wonders for a moment if she's intending to tease him about it, when her cheek brushes against his and she whispers into his ear.

"You're not very good with clasps, are you?"

He flushes, likely a darker shade than even her dress, and she draws away, laughing at his expense. His cheeks are heated as he presses a palm to the side of his face, and he feels as though the collar of his shirt is almost strangling him, but Melinda's attentions are no longer upon him. She's moved over to the armoire now, applying a dark red tint to her lips. The golden letters engraved into the black box the lipstick came in read " _Bloody Hell_ ", and he thinks it's a pretty accurate description of the product.

Bloody hell, indeed.

He waits as patiently as he can manage, shuffling from foot to foot, until Melinda has finished with the last of her makeup, before clearing his throat.

“The costume department only packed bow ties,” he mumbles, pulling out the length of silk from the pocket of his suit jacket, dangling it between two fingers.

Phil waits for her to smirk, to tease him about his inability to do up a tie, but she remains expressionless. He breathes deeply as she approaches him, reaching for the tie and pulling it from his weak grasp. She fiddles with it for a while, pulling it around his neck and he wonders if she's ever killed a man this way, choking him to death with his own tie.

He keeps his gaze locked firmly on a point over her shoulder, letting out a gasp of almost relief when the crushing pressure on his throat eases. His jaw falls open in surprise as she discards the tie, tossing it onto the bed behind them, and he assumes that she too had no luck with tying a presentable bow.

Of course, his theories are quickly dismissed when her hands return to the collar of his shirt, and her fingers quickly undo the top three buttons, pulling and smoothing the fabric until she is satisfied with the result. Her lips part slightly, as if she is about to say something, and he leans in a little closer, eager to hear whatever it is she might say.

She doesn't speak though, instead of adjusting his collar just once more, fingertips brushing against the bare skin just above his sternum, before ducking her head and turning away once more.

He stands, watching as she distracts herself, rummaging around for accessories, and when he is sure she's not paying attention, he raises a hand to his throat, his thumb hovering over the spot she had touched just before, and smiling to himself.

Phil is almost a hundred percent sure that Melinda had almost complimented him.

 

* * *

 

His earlier assumptions had been correct - they are most definitely overdressed. Of course, they're not the only ones, but it has the intended effect, drawing attention from all those that they brush past, seemingly without a care. The truth is, Phil could probably describe each and every one of them to a sketch artist a week from now.

He and Melinda separate, heading off in different directions so as to cover as much ground as they can. There's a team monitoring the surveillance footage, being their eyes and ears from above while they keep their heads up and observe from a close range.

They have close to two dozen agents scattered across casinos at the strip, all undercover, along with backup from local law enforcement and in house security, keeping an eagle eye out for any activity that could be considered suspicious.

It's a large operation, on any scale, and the cost of losing is quite literally, too high.

Phil makes one round of the room before finding a table with an empty spot and taking a seat. Nothing unusual appears to be going on, and he ends up staying for several games, betting little and winning little, just enough to get him warmed up for the evening.

He wanders for a while, moving through the crowd, spying Clint out of the corner of his eye, dealing at a table off in the far corner, blending in perfectly amongst the other employees scattered throughout the room. It takes him another ten minutes before he manages to score a seat at a no limits table filled with a group of very wealthy looking businessmen.

Each of them has at least one bodyguard nearby; it only takes him one scan of the surroundings to determine so, and he knows that this is a good place as ever to make an impact. He flashes a smile at the dealer, depositing a stack of chips on the table as a buy-in at her instruction, before taking a seat.

Phil keeps his hands clasped together above the table as he studies each of the players sitting at his table. They're all serious, and like him, are keeping a close eye on one another. It's to be expected; the stakes are high. The dealer begins to shuffle the deck, but instead of watching her as he expected them to, each of the seven players turn in his direction. He panics internally for a moment, until a gentle hand brushes the side of his neck, and he looks up, meeting Melinda's gaze.

She smiles, tilting her head to the side and staring down at him, blinking once, and he knows that her reconnaissance has turned up no leads. Her fingers run along the edge of his collar, and he resists the urge to shudder beneath her gaze, the intensity within her eyes bearing down into his very soul.

He reaches for her hand, feeling just how tiny it is in his, and awaits her next move. What he expects is for her to lean down and whisper instructions in his ear, tell him what Clint and the rest of their team are up to, or how they're going to proceed from this point on.

She does none of these things.

Phil can feel the gaze of the eight other people around the table on him, or more specifically, on Melinda, as she steps forward and slides herself onto his lap, hooking her arms around his shoulders. He places a hand on her hip to keep her from slipping off, given the material of her dress and judging from the expressions of the other players, no one seems to have a problem delaying the game by a few minutes.

"She's my lucky charm," he announces in way of explanation, causing a round of quiet laughter and looks of approval from around the table.

"Darling, did you find your way around okay?"

His voice is softer now, but still loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, and Melinda pauses for a while, confusion in her eyes as if she is slowly comprehending his words, before nodding. He covers the hand she has over his heart his own, and cannot stop the smile that forms when she lets out the smallest giggle.

"Good luck," she mumbles, in heavily accented English, and his eyes fall shut as she leans in, pressing a firm kiss to his lips. She smiles again as she pulls away, rubbing at the lipstick that had transferred over with her thumb. The smallest crease forms between her brows and her lips are pursed as she concentrates in getting rid of the deep red stain on the corner of his mouth. She releases a quiet noise of satisfaction as soon as she has managed to clear his skin once more, beginning to move away. All eyes are on Melinda as she stands, and he keeps a hold on her hand, bringing it back to his lips and kissing her fingertips. She giggles at his affections, eyes lighting up in excitement when he slips a hand in his pocket, pulling out a small stack of bills and pressing them against her palm, only letting go once her fingers are curled around it.

"Go get yourself a drink. But hurry back, I'm not sure how lucky I'll be without you by my side."

He turns to watch her leave, and she gives him a little wave before turning away, hips swaying almost suggestively. His gaze is trained on her hair though, like it often is, admiring the twists, braids and curls, held up by what appear to be chopsticks. It’s elegant, intricate, and his attention does not waver until the moment he loses sight of her in the crowd. Sighing, he straightens in his seat once more and tries to concentrate, not letting the suggestive images in his mind distract him.

In the second round, he's dealt a queen of hearts, and the only thing on his mind is Melinda.

 

* * *

 

They return to their suite at close to two in the morning, and Phil isn't one hundred percent sure, but he thinks that he's probably lost close to a quarter of a million dollars in the one night. He’s not quite sure how they're going to explain that one to Fury.

His body aches and his head is pounding, courtesy of the drinks Melinda had been bringing to him all throughout the evening. It's fortunate that they have plenty of time to rest up, continuing their routine from today with little change. It will make them an easy target for any criminals in the area.

He ends up dozing off the moment his back hits the bed, long before Melinda has finished changing, despite his earlier intentions of sleeping on the more than adequate couch.

They needed to keep some semblance of boundaries before any more lines were crossed.

Phil is jolted from his half asleep state after a length of time he cannot define, when the mattress beside him dips ever so slightly, and he cracks an eye open, watching silently as Melinda climbs in beside him, turning on her side and lying as far away as possible, leaving a chasm of space between them. He doesn't have the time to ponder about the implications of her actions, nor does he remember to continue that train of thought when he awakens the morning.

No, the only thing on his mind before his eyes flutter close once more and he drifts off, is the realisation that Melinda had managed to change out of her dress without his assistance, which means she hadn't really needed his help earlier when she was putting it on.

His lips quirk into a little half smile before his mind empties and he falls into a deep slumber.

 

* * *

 

By their sixth day in Vegas, Melinda is almost sure she's lost her mind.

Whilst she had initially been very eager to work with Phil, she almost regrets asking to be assigned to this mission. Being around him in such close proximity has never been an issue for her before, but now she finds herself drawn to things she most decidedly hadn't made notice of in the past, at least not consciously.

More than once she has caught herself watching him for longer than might seem appropriate, in a manner that she’ll admit is not at all professional. She would be lying if she claimed that seeing his smile didn't make her want to smile return, that his voice calmed her and his presence made her happy. It’s not normal. She knows it isn't. There aren't many she’ll call her close friends, but even those that she does do not evoke the same feelings from her.

The stretch of time they've spent apart since their last mission has only cemented her suspicions about the matter. After being in only one another’s company for months, going back to her normal everyday life as a specialist had been a serious contrast. She found herself missing the company. Seeing him again and now going back to playing pretend makes her wish there was something a little more real about it.

It's a foolish notion but it's there all the same.

Perhaps it's because she's been alone for so long now. She prefers the solitude at times but it's nice to have someone to share her space with at times. It's high time she find herself a little happiness, no matter how fleeting the moments are likely to be.

The thoughts on her mind, they're dangerous waters, and she needs to stop herself not before she drowns, but before she can even dip her toe in the shallows.

 

* * *

 

Phil has met people with powers before, but never someone with abilities of this magnitude. He has particularly vivid recollections of a woman who could change the colour of her hair just by touching something and absorbing the pigments. Honestly, he's still not clear about the specifics or science behind it, but last he heard, she's still working as a member of a travelling circus.

This, well this is beyond any magic trick he's ever seen, and it's all thanks to Clint that SHIELD has another powered individual in their custody, away from the grasps of those who sought to use those abilities for their own gain. They’ll be safe, protected and no longer constantly afraid for their own well-being, harmed by people they trusted, by their own family.

 

* * *

 

Phil is mingling with other players by the bar area, getting ready to go find himself a table for the evening when Melinda appears beside him, having vanished not ten minutes earlier to do her customary surveillance around the room. He’s startled by her presence but manages to hide it well enough by taking a sip of his drink, setting it on the bar top behind him as he turns to give her his undivided attention.

“Back so soon? Did you miss me?”

The expression on her face is of utter adoration, but her eyes tell him that she’s mostly unimpressed and a little wary and uncomfortable. It’s not a familiar look, and any other time he’d take a moment to make sure she’s okay, but her presence alone tells him that things are coming to a head with their mission, and to prepare for action. He takes her hand as she reaches it towards him, holding it just above his heart and drawing her in beside him. All the people in their vicinity seem to inch away as she curls up into his side, either uncomfortable with their public displays of affection, or moving to give them space.

Melinda’s hair is down tonight and provides a perfect curtain as she leans up to whisper instructions in his ear, the curls tickling his cheek as she speaks.

“Clint has a potential target in his line of sight. They’re assembling undercover agents to take seats at his table, which includes you. They're preparing a team to sweep the guy’s room and monitor other leads, but it looks like we’ll be finishing up on this mission soon.”

He keeps a smile plastered on his face as he processes Melinda’s words, eyes darting around the room, seeing several familiar faces moving towards their target location.

“Should be fun,” he murmurs, moving his arm to wrap around Melinda’s waist, taking a deep breath to calm himself before they waded into the upcoming chaos.

They make their way over together, and Phil holds a spare chair for Melinda, waiting for her to take a seat before taking his own beside her, scanning the other occupants of the table. He and Clint make eye contact for three seconds, a perfectly acceptable amount of time, before his attentions are drawn away by a soft tug at his collar and a warm hand resting on his thigh. Melinda smiles, once again pressing her body against his, and he wills himself not to react, just holding her close to him as the round begins.

Agents Jespert, Collins and Watts are sitting among undercover officers from local law enforcement, and he can see several agents scattered in the crowd around them, all prepared to take action should the worst happen. They're dealing with an individual who is likely dangerous, may possess irregular abilities and have accomplices assisting them in their crimes. One can never be too cautious when it comes to situations as volatile as these, though their target looks like an everyday businessman, not someone heavily involved in criminal activity.

From Phil’s experience as an agent to date, the most dangerous of offenders are those who can pass by undetected.

The atmosphere is tense as the game proceeds, like the branch of a tree being bent in the wind, curving until the moment it snaps in two.

It all goes down in the blink of an eye.

The man lays down a winning hand and Clint nods, imperceptibly, before guns are drawn and casino security comes charging forward to assist in the arrest. It feels wrong, that there was so much build up to this moment - and yet the enemy went down so quickly.

Phil almost finds himself relaxing, until Clint makes an unexpected move, beckoning to him and Melinda to follow as he tears out of the room and towards the foyer. They stop by the front desk to collect a weapons case, but there’s no more time to pause or ask questions until they're contained within the metal walls of an elevator, the doors sealing shut behind them. Before Phil has a chance to even pose a question, Clint is handing him a gun from the case and letting Melinda have her pick as he extracts his bow and a dozen or so arrows.

“Potentially volatile suspects in a suite on the twenty-second floor - there’s a three man team posted outside and SHIELD wants us to go in as back-up.”

His heart is pounding against his chest as he readies himself for the fight ahead, letting out a shallow breath when a soft ding signals they’ve reached their destination. He reaches for the now half-empty weapons case as the doors open, following Clint and Melinda as they race through the halls.

Phil remembers meeting up with the uniformed guards and breaking the door down, but everything afterwards is kind of a blur. A chaotic blur. There are a dozen men inside, drawing their weapons, firing in their direction, and one of the guards goes down, hit squarely in the chest and Clint retaliates, sending four men sprawling to the ground, arrows embedded in their wrists.

He’s adapted to life on the right side of the law pretty well, maiming and not killing. The thought is Ton Phil’s mind for less than a split second before he’s suddenly knocked off balance, crashing to the ground with Melinda on top of him.

“You could have gotten yourself shot,” she seethes, and all he can do is nod as she stands, pulling him back to his feet as the fight continues. Phil manages to get two shots in himself before Melinda barrels forward, knocking men down faster than he can blink. He’s aware Clint is speaking to someone in the far corner of the room, but he concentrates his own efforts on securing cuffs on all of the downed enemies, lowering the chance of any escape attempts.

It isn’t until they’re preparing to leave the room that he catches his first proper glimpse of the girl in Clint’s arms, bloody gashes on her wrists and ankles from metal restraints, and a curious expression on her face.

She’s smiling.

 

* * *

 

“I didn't have the easiest time growing up, but I can't even begin to imagine how terrifying her life must have been, used by her family in such a manner.”

Melinda looks down to the ground as Clint speaks, the words circling in her mind as she draws up memories of the worst scenarios she has encountered on missions to date.

She's definitely seen worse and knows they'll only continue to encounter more and more horrible situations in their endeavour to make the world a safer place to live in. The cynical part of her wonders if their actions have any impact on the lives of others, if all their efforts are in vain. The other part, the one that has absolute faith in their ideals, knows that without their intervention, things might be a thousand times for terrifying than they are now.

They're each heading back to their respective bases to check in before going off on a mandatory forty-eight hour break period to recuperate. She has several bruised ribs and managed to roll her ankle during the fight, but they're all minor ailments compared to her opponents, who have been sent off to heavily guarded infirmaries for treatment. Like her, both Phil and Clint have managed to walk away from this mission fairly unscathed - in fact, their entire team escaped with no casualties.

It's quite fortunate for them.

 

* * *

 

“You know, I haven't properly thanked you for saving my ass back there.”

She hears the sincerity in his voice before she sees the same expression in his gaze, turning to face him with a smirk.

“I'm used to it.”

Phil pretends to look offended, but it lasts for maybe three seconds before he laughs, shaking his head at her. He seems calmer, less stressed than he was last week.

“Still, I thought maybe you could come to Brooklyn, maybe we could go and grab a drink? I owe you at least a beer for your heroics.”

The tone of his voice is so casual, but she notes the hint of hope behind it and recalls all the times they've spoken before about going and grabbing a drink together and she can't even begin to imagine the implications of doing so. She isn't ready to grab that drink with him, for the possibility of something more. There's a chance she might never be prepared for such a development… it's too dangerous. She just has to keep repeating that thought in her mind, reminding herself of all the reasons why it could never work. Of course, she could be reading this situation completely incorrectly, but she trusts her gut instinct in this moment.

“I'm sorry, Phil. I actually already have plans back in D.C.”

It's the first time that she's lied to him like this, turned him down on purpose, and even though she knows that this is all for the best, she can't help but feel conflicted doing so. The look of disappointment he has in reaction to her response pains her, in an almost physical sense, though that could be the pain medication wearing off.

She says nothing further than that, hoping that he doesn't miss the way she made no mention of next time. What she does do, is reach out and give him a hug, patting him on the back like they often do when they part ways, like she does with Clint and others she considers to be her friends.

That's what they are after all, friends.

Nothing more.

 

* * *

 

Phil takes twenty-four hours off after he gets back to Brooklyn. He eats, sleeps and spends just a little bit of time moping around before he smartens up once more, pulling on one of his own familiar suits and shaving off the stubble that had accumulated over the lower half of his face.

He feels like himself again.

His colleagues try to protest when he shows up at work, but their objections quickly die down when he doesn't stop at his desk, instead going seven floors up. He does owe a certain secretary coffee and the possibility of something more.

“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this,” Alice tells him as he escorts her to a cafe just two blocks down from headquarters.

Finally.

If two weeks warrants a finally, he wonders what word might encompass the feeling one might have after waiting for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while - apologies for that. the fandom has been kind of rocky lately, but i thought it was time for an update. hope you all enjoy!


	12. XII

It's actually a split-second decision she makes, to invite Clint home for Christmas with her. Truth be told, she had not been planning much for the holidays, certainly not considering flying all the way out to Arizona, just to listen to her father reminisce about her childhood. No, when she had pictured Christmas celebrations, she had envisioned sitting in a bar with other agents, drinking the night away and sharing not so classified secrets about past missions. It’s kind of a tradition for those of them who don’t have loved ones to see during this time of the year, though she doesn’t quite fit into that category, being lucky enough to have two possible homes to return to, and two parents who love her. 

Her mother does not show it in the conventional way, instead always finding something to criticise. It’s her way of demonstrating affection, showing that she cares, and Melinda has long grown used to the icy atmosphere in her mother’s home that has very little to do with the snows outside. She does miss her father though, the man who had raised her for much of her childhood, while her mother was off defending the world, much like Melinda herself does now. 

Holidays with William May have always been quite the spectacle. 

Melinda remembers every occasion they celebrated during her childhood; all the conventional holidays like New Year’s Day, both the Western and Lunar calendar versions, Easter, Fourth of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas, with the addition of birthdays and anniversaries scattered in throughout. Her father had spared no expense when it came to thoroughly decorating the house, purchasing ingredients for the feasts that often resulted in a week of leftovers and throwing parties for the entire neighbourhood.

He claimed it helped them blend in with the rest of the community, given that they stood out in almost every other way, being Asian-American and having a stay at home father, a working mother who was never around and an academically and athletically gifted daughter who didn't play well with the other children.

She knows that he just love the theatrics of it all, and the smile on her face when she helped him decorate as a child. They lit sparklers and watched fireworks in the backyard twice a year, in January and July, painted Easter Eggs in the Spring and carved pumpkins and turkeys in the Fall. Every year without fail they would put up the tree and string it with lights and tinsel, decorating the branches with baubles and special trinkets her father had collected over the years. They had their Christmas rituals, which Melinda always found odd as a child, considering they were not religious in the slightest. The tradition never changed, not even after her parents had their less than amicable divorce, but she hadn't been home for the holidays for several years now. It's as though she gradually grew out of it, the young and carefree child who adored such things, resembling her own mother more and more as time passes. 

It isn't as though she looks for excuses not to go home for the holidays. Sometimes missions get in the way, sometimes the mood is not right for celebrating. Most often she volunteers to give up her vacation time so that people who desperately want to return to their families are able to. This year, there’s nothing in the way, and she's already accepted that she’ll be falling back into the old routine of Christmas at her father’s. It frightens her a little, shedding the mask she wears as an agent, just being Melinda and not Agent May. The specialist within her won't disappear completely; she’ll likely still sleep with a gun in her bedside drawer and a knife tucked beneath her pillow, but for a few days at least, she will not have to worry about anything beyond how many shots of bourbon she wants in her cocoa or what colour tinsel to wrap around the tree. 

That and making sure Clint doesn't do anything stupid, like trying to toast marshmallows on the end of one of his arrows. She honestly has no clue why that's the first thing that comes to mind when she imagines him causing a Christmas disaster, but she's willing to bet that it's something Clint has tried or will try at some point in his life. 

Her father had been surprised when she called to inform him she was returning home for the holidays, and completely shocked when she had told him to prepare the spare room because she was bringing a friend from work with her. She has no idea what he's expecting, but her only intention in inviting Clint is so that he won't be alone during Christmas. In the past months, he had opened up to her about his childhood, which had been an experience for them both. Whilst Melinda hid most of her worries and fears behind a mask of indifference, expressing her emotions through actions rather than words, Clint had made light of all his past traumas, burying his issues deep beneath humour and jokes. Clearly, neither of them deal well with their emotions, but somehow that similarity had helped him speak with her, and she felt happy he trusted her enough to open up to her.

Spies keep secrets for a living, and to confess your greatest fears and darkest traumas to someone is as dangerous as giving one’s opponent a loaded gun and aiming it towards your own head or heart.

Yet she now knows more about Clint than anyone else; formed mental images of the horrors he went through as a child. She had clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles went white, almost splintering the arm of her chair when he spoke of the colours he associated with Christmas. 

Black and blue. 

The exact mottled shade of the bruises that covered the bodies of his mother, his brother, himself. An overwhelming stench of liquor and the sound of a family breaking, both physically and mentally. The car crash that took away his parents also took most of his hearing, but Clint had described that day as his salvation, despite life not getting much easier for him until more than a decade later. Melinda thinks that for someone who has gone through so much trauma, to be where he is today, fighting the good fight, Clint deserves to be viewed as some sort of hero.

She doesn’t think twice before inviting him to spend Christmas with her, because she has an inkling that it will be the first time he’s ever truly been able to celebrate the holiday. 

 

* * *

 

Phil doesn't mind working during the holidays.

He isn't a participant in any active operations, so he stays back at the office with a couple of guys who work on the same floor. The building is almost completely deserted, and will likely remain that way up into the New Year when the rest of the agents return from their vacations. Phil is used to the hustle and bustle, but it’s almost nice to have some peace and quiet from time to time.

They have their own makeshift office Christmas party, with cheap gas station liquor and vending machine snacks, and he’s two beers past tipsy by the time their celebrations wind down. He doesn’t trust himself to drive home, no matter how much he longs to just flop down in bed and sleep for the rest of the year, and crashes in his chair until he sobers up enough. By the time he’s in Lola and heading back to Brooklyn, it’s close to four in the morning and the streets are almost completely empty. There’s a little snow, and he’s glad he thought to put Lola’s top up, not wanting to risk damaging her interior. 

The drive is ten or so minutes shorter than his usual commute, which means he’s back in his apartment by five, after a brisk walk from the car park. He's a trained agent with a gun strapped above his ankle and a retractable knife in his sleeve, but that doesn't do much to soothe his fears of getting dragged into an empty alleyway and beaten up for cash. The breath of relief he released upon entering his building is far from subtle, and it's probably a good thing that no one is around to see it.

He's exhausted, but he won't have to get into work till three in the afternoon tomorrow, so he takes his time getting ready for bed, starting with a very lengthy shower. The hot water leaves him feeling refreshed, and he finds himself humming Christmas carols as he moves around the kitchen, mixing up a pot of hot chocolate.

For one.

It hits him as he's standing by the stove in his pyjamas, pouring out his drink, how lonely he feels. His apartment isn't particularly large by any means, but it seems so empty, so silent. 

Like a metaphor for his life, he thinks.

It isn't as though he doesn't have people in his life. Alice is lovely. She pretends to laugh at his stupid jokes, and they go on lunch dates at least once a week, but he's still hesitant to call her anything other than a friend, and has no idea where she’s spending the holidays. He thinks they could have a good time together, and he’s willing to try and make things work, but if he is being honest with himself, he doesn't envision that whatever relationship that might develop between them, will last long at all.

It's terribly morbid of him to see things ending before they've even had a chance to begin, and he thinks he might be happier if he stopped analysing aspects of his personal life to such a degree. 

Either way, he's still alone in this moment, and there's little he can do to remedy it. He thinks back to this time last year as he moves to sit down on his couch, and smiles to himself at the somewhat happy memory. It was the mission that brought Clint into his life, and they were at a safe house far from home, but he hadn't been lonely then. Lucky had used him like a public restroom, an incident he knows will never be forgotten about, but that day is one he remembers fondly.

He and Melinda had sat on the floor, eating grilled cheese sandwiches and drinking hot chocolate laced with vodka, and conversed in a manner that was not quite usual for the both of them.

It was warm and pleasant.

All he feels now is cold, but that has little to do with the snow that is falling outside. It's a chill that comes from within, something he’s been experiencing more and more lately. It's an emptiness that makes him question how satisfied he is with his life, one that hits him hard but is quickly brushed away, because he knows what he has to do, and he's accepted it. 

Truthfully, it's become easier to ignore. He's not sure if that's a good thing, but it certainly makes his life less difficult.

His mug ends up in the kitchen sink, soaking but unwashed, because he can do it in the morning, and he makes his way into his bedroom, eager to catch some sleep. He heads over to his bed in almost complete darkness, reaching out to switch on the lamp, blinking in surprise when he sees the envelope on his pillow, which had most definitely not been there when he left for work.

It's unmarked, and he turns it over in his hands as he climbs into bed, sliding beneath the sheets with a yawn.

There's a fairly plain looking card inside, and nothing else. 

He's a little hesitant to open it, worried about the contents, but figures it can't put much more of a damper on his holiday spirit. 

_ Phil, _

_ Peggy and I couldn't find any trading cards this year, but I have managed to locate a gift for you. Come to D.C. on February 13. There’s a bar ten minutes from the Triskelion called “Communication”. At 8 pm, tell the bartender you're the Star Spangled Man with a plan, and they will guide you from there. You are allowed no further questions. _

_ Merry Christmas. _

_ M. _

He finds himself smiling for the first time in what feels like an age, silently deliberating Melinda’s intentions. Either she’s truly gone out of her way to arrange something special for him, or this is part of an elaborate prank. He's not quite sure which scares him more, knowing just how far she’s willing to go for a good laugh. There’s every chance he’ll end up getting an apology gift at the end of the whole ordeal, but he's afraid to imagine just what he will have to survive first. 

Maybe it won't be so bad.

He can't even bring himself to imagine what is on Melinda’s mind; whether or not this is purely an invitation to something, designed as a present for him. There are ridiculous conclusions that he jumps to first, but they're quickly wiped away by the sensible part of him, that knows such thoughts will lead only to disaster. He’s inclined to believe that there’s a joke behind it all, because that's the only thing that really makes sense to him.

She must have broken into his apartment earlier in the day while he was at work to leave it here for him, and he laughs softly to himself as he imagines her voice in his mind. 

_ “It isn't breaking in. I have a key.”  _

He's so thankful either way, to have received even a card, because he feels as though they have been drifting apart a little. Friendships are difficult to maintain when people only see each other several times in a year, or in their case, almost primarily for work-related reasons. She's popped up in New York more times this year than she has in all the other years he’s lived here, though many of her visits were to see Clint. He realises that's likely the reason she was in town today, to pick him up for their Christmas vacation.

Clint hadn't gone into the details, but apparently, Melinda had invited him home for the holidays and he was cautiously optimistic about the entire experience.

Phil is happy for them, truly. He's heard bits and pieces about Clint’s difficult childhood, and imagines he mustn't have had very positive experiences with the holidays, and it's actually nice to see Melinda more carefree than before.

She used to be like that with him.

It hasn't been a drastic change, rather a slow and gradual one that he didn't pick up on until now, seeing her like this again. She's the slightest bit more guarded around him, and though it hasn't impacted their friendship in a particularly noticeable way, it is what it is.

He wonders what has changed between them for this to happen, but it's not a question he'd ever willingly ask. The thought keeps him up for far too long, and when he is so tired that he has little choice other than to turn on his side and drift off, he can hear the faintest sounds coming from his upstairs’ neighbours.

The pitter-patter of tiny feet against the floor, and high pitched screams of “Mommy! Daddy! Santa came, Santa came!”

It's as close as he’ll ever get to hearing the sounds within his own home.

 

* * *

 

It really doesn't snow much in Arizona.

Instead of a blanket of icy white, like one might see when walking through a winter wonderland, it feels as though the city is trapped in a perpetual autumn until spring comes around. It’s not too far from the airport to her father’s house out in the suburbs, but it takes a couple tries for them to find a taxi both large enough and willing to house Lucky’s cage for the journey. Melinda knows full well that her father would have come to pick them up had she informed him of their arrival time, but she figures he’s likely already going to enough trouble in anticipation of the celebrations, and doesn’t want to add any more onto his plate. 

That’s why she and Clint end up stuffed into the back seat of a taxi, with Lucky’s cage crammed in between them, too high to fit inside the trunk of the vehicle. It’s hardly comfortable, but their driver is exactly the type that Melinda likes; quiet and as far from inquisitive as a person can get. He doesn’t take a second look at them, doesn’t even spare them a glance through the rearview mirror as they clamber in, and says nothing until they pull up outside her father’s house, informing them of the fare in a low grunt. 

She tips him an extra five dollars in gratitude for his silence, earning her a bemused expression from Clint and a simultaneous head tilt from Lucky. It's really quite creepy at times how connected the pair are.

 

* * *

 

The exterior of her father's home had appeared to be undisturbed, easily blending in with the rest of the houses in the neighbourhood. The normality lasts all the way from the sidewalk to the front porch, when they're assaulted by an explosion of festivity the second the door is opened. It's the smell that hits them first, a combination of herbs and spices, mixed in with the scent of gingerbread cookies fresh from the oven and a slow roasting turkey. The sounds of someone moving around in the kitchen are barely audible above the carols playing in the background, but they can hear a knife against a wooden chopping block all the same, having been drilled to pick up on such things.

Habits are hard to break, even when they're off duty.

Lucky sits just inside the front entrance, Clint having released him from his prison moments after they arrived, his tail wagging almost impatiently as he waits for the pair of them to bring their luggage inside. Melinda can feel Clint’s gaze boring into the back of her head as she bolts the door shut, securing it with the extra locks and chains that clearly had not been in use earlier. He doesn't comment on it though, and for that, she is immensely grateful.

There are lights strung up all around the house, wreaths of holly hanging on the walls and stray strands of tinsel coiled around it all. She thinks her father must have started decorating for the occasion as soon as Thanksgiving had ended, and she pauses in the middle of the hallway, just taking a moment to admire all of his efforts. 

“I thought I would go for silver this year. All that gold last year was far too tacky for my taste.”

Her father is standing in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a hideous red and green apron, with a pair of mismatched oven mitts covering his hands. Melinda’s smile at the sight of him is small, but genuine. It's been awhile since she came home for a visit. Long overdue, if she's being honest with herself. Whilst she imagines she might try to swallow a bullet if she had to live with her parents permanently and see them on a daily basis, she misses spending time with them, her sporadic schedule not at all accommodating in that respect. It's easier to drop in on her father, because he's around most of the time, but it's rare for Melinda and her mother to ever be in the same country at the same time, much less the same city.

“Looks good,” she finally manages, making a show of looking around the space, sneaking a glance at Clint who appears to be completely mesmerised by the decor. 

“You always did have a way with words, Mellie,” her father tells her, chuckling as he shakes his head, before turning his attention to their guest. “You must be Clint. You know, Mellie has never brought a boy home before. I was afraid she had not made any friends at work.”

He continues to ramble on as he leads them through the house and towards the bedrooms; Melinda resists the urge to roll her eyes with every step. It's universally known that parents were either going to terrify your guests, smother them by being far too overeager or embarrass the hell out of you by sharing childhood stories or secrets, and she's honestly glad her father is the third kind. 

She doesn't think Clint will last five minutes in the same room as her mother, who pretty much terrifies the living daylights out of just about every person she ever encounters. It's a skill Melinda is slowly picking up on; it's not as though she wants to alienate all those around her, but it's useful in getting rid of unwanted company, which unfortunately, she often finds herself in the presence of. 

“I'll be having the neighbours over for lunch tomorrow, and then my gardening club will be here the day after that. But tonight it will just be the three of us.”

There's a bark and then a low whine as Lucky pads over, knocking into their legs with his body, eager to be the centre of attention.

“I am mistaken. It seems that there will be four of us celebrating Christmas together this year.”

As her father bends down to play with the over-excitable ball of golden fluff, Clint turns to Melinda with a huge mocking grin across his face. She glares at him, but it does little to deter him from his next actions. 

“Mellie?” he mouths, clapping a hand over his face afterwards in an attempt to stop his laughter from spilling out. Melinda pinches his arm none too gently, the warning evident in her glare. Christmas or not, if he pissed her off, he could end up disappearing off the face of the earth for the rest of eternity.

Apparently, he decides that it's worth the risk.

_ “Mellie?!” _

She has no intention of making her father mop up Clint’s blood when this is all over, so she resorts to verbal retaliation, which if she considers it carefully, is a lot like blackmail. 

_ “If this gets out, I’ll send out a memo to every S.H.I.E.L.D. agent telling them that the famous Hawkeye once fought with his dog over a slice of pizza. And lost.” _

Her voice is merely a whisper, but Clint is quite possibly the best lip reader she has ever encountered, and she’s confident he will have no problem understanding her. She smirks, taking in his expression when he comprehends her words, and anticipates the dramatic reaction about to unfold. Sure enough, he pretends to look as offended as one possibly could, glaring in Lucky’s direction before turning his gaze back to her. 

_ “He already had two slices. He’s getting fat. I was just trying to protect him, but he had puppy dog eyes. Puppy dog eyes!” _

She rolls her eyes at what might possibly be the worst excuse she’s ever heard, and in a moment of what she can only assume is Clint’s “inner child” showing through, he sticks his tongue out at her. Melinda doesn’t particularly want to resort to physical violence, but there’s no way she’s poking her tongue out at him, so she aims for the gap between two of his ribs and jabs him just hard enough to have him leaping away from her touch. She snickers as he rubs at the spot, acting like she'd shoved a knife against him instead of just her finger, and thinks the next week or so spent here will be rather entertaining for her.

Distracted by one another, neither of them notice the curious expression from her father, crouching by Lucky and absentmindedly petting at his golden coat, his gaze focused solely on the pair of them. 

He shakes his head and then smiles.

It was nice to see his daughter so happy and carefree, around a young man who was clearly good friends with her. He only wishes she had more of those, more good friends to watch her back beyond the line of duty. 

He doesn't want her ever to be lonely.

 

* * *

 

They're sitting around in the lounge room after dinner, her father in his usual armchair, her and Clint on the sofa, with Lucky lying across their laps. Her father had made tea, like he always did, and Clint had put on a brave face and downed the entire cup, even though Melinda was entirely aware he found the substance repulsive compared to his precious coffee. 

For a moment she finds her mind drifting to times gone by, a different city, different company, hot chocolate that had kept her body warm throughout the night, and a smile that made her heart beat just a little quicker. She doesn't allow herself to picture it for long, pushing the memories aside and focusing on what is in front of her.

Lucky is perfectly content being the centre of attention, having his head scratched and fur petted, and Clint, well, he seems to be enjoying himself too.

Dinner hadn't been as fancy as she feared, just half a dozen rustic dishes in small portions, traditional things one might see at the table. There had been a small roast chicken because buying a turkey of any size would have meant a week's worth of leftovers, several sides, and the atmosphere was warm and comforting, just as she remembered. 

The Christmas tree sits to one side of the room, a mountain of colourfully wrapped gifts under it. She had snuck a glance earlier and knows about half of them are likely hampers from the various groups her father is a member of. The rest are probably of her father’s own creation, jars of jams and preserves and other handmade projects, all packaged neatly but unmarked, ready to be presented to whoever might drop by for a visit within the next few days. 

Melinda already knows what present her father intends to gift to her; a scarf or a sweater, something knitted, crocheted or woven. She had sent him a plethora of naturally dyed yarns in January, after the mission involving Clint had ended, and for several years now he's made use of her past gifts to craft something her something in return. This year she had bought him a leather-bound journal and a fountain pen, and she looks forward to the stories he has to share.

She and Clint had already exchanged gifts back at his apartment, which was a wise idea considering what they'd gotten for each other. He'd presented her with a blade. A big knife. It was a sword. She'd burst into laughter at the sight of it, but hugged him in thanks anyway. If she were not a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, she could imagine herself as a sword-wielding vigilante, defending her city from bad people by cutting them down in one fell swoop. She had left it behind on his coffee table, knowing there was no way she was sneaking that thing around in her luggage. Clint will actually get to use the gift she got for him, a prototype arrow she had the weapons designers craft for her. It hasn't been approved for the field yet, but she knows he’ll enjoy firing it off inside the lab and tinkering with it until it's perfected.

Her father retires not too long after ten, but she and Clint converse until close to midnight before retreating to their rooms for the evening. She prepares for bed, changing into loose pants and a t-shirt, ready to sleep till noon for a change. 

There’s a knock on her door, just as she's about to climb into bed, and she quickly moves over to see what the matter is. 

Clint is standing out in the hall, wearing purple boxers and a ratty old t-shirt, his hair sticking out in all directions.

“I knew I was forgetting something,” he tells her, speaking a little more loudly than she's used to him doing. He thrusts something out towards her, drawing her gaze down to his hands, and the neatly packaged gift he is holding. She's about to ask him for an explanation, but he speaks before she has the opportunity to. 

“Phil gave it to me to give to you, and I'd packed it into my luggage so I wouldn't forget and then I almost fell asleep and forgot, but Lucky reminded me and here you go. Merry Christmas. Again.”

She nods slowly, accepting the box and wishes him a good night, watching as he stumbles sleepily back down the hallway. The door to the spare room opens and then closes, before Melinda is closing the door to her own room with her shoulder, attention focused on the little box in her hands.

Phil had sent her a card from Fiji for her birthday, along with a pressed flower. She has no idea if he'd picked it and preserved it himself, or if he purchased it in that form, but she is certain that he had broken one or more customs regulations bringing it back to the States with him. It's not surprising that he's gotten her a Christmas present, but she is a little shocked that he had Clint bring it along on their trip.

She had snuck her gift to him into his apartment before going over to Clint’s earlier that morning. There are several barely mint condition Captain America trading cards in a locked drawer back in her apartment, but she had wanted to present him with something a little more memorable this year. He's seemed a little down the past few times she's seen him, and she hopes that what she has planned will cheer him up. Perhaps she's going a little beyond what friends do for one another, and wonders if it's because his sentimentality has rubbed off on her.

A quick glance at the clock on her bedside table tells her that it is 11:58. Still Christmas Day. She climbs up into her bed, shuffling beneath the covers before unwrapping the box, smiling when she sees the contents.

A box of blue thumbtacks. 

The label tells her there are one hundred contained inside the clear plastic container. 

A hundred pins for a hundred cities. 

She hopes that there will come a day when she has used them all.

 

* * *

 

Clint has the most bewildered expression when she shows them to him, after he pesters her incessantly about what Phil had gotten her for Christmas.

He himself had received a year’s supply of coffee and a custom doggy sweatshirt for Lucky with the words “I will not pee on people” across the back.

“Thumbtacks? What the actual fuck?”

She smiles and says little else.

 

* * *

 

Phil manages to survive through to the New Year. 

There's very little sleeping and a whole lot of alcohol passed around, but they don't cause any major incidents. All in all, he would consider the week a success. 

He's given two days off to recuperate after most of the agents get back from their respective holidays, and he spends much of it trying to get his body back to a normal sleeping schedule. There’s probably not too much of a point, considering how unstable their hours are, but he figures he should at least make an effort.

It certainly wouldn't hurt to treat his body with a little more care.

There's a three-day operation in Ottawa involving a powered individual with the ability to alter the physical states of water, which goes smoothly enough. They add the young man to The Index, after a day of threat assessment, after which Phil, along with a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. psychiatrists and a fellow analyst, determine that he is a low-risk case. Local agents are in charge of following up, and that’s another mission done and dusted, no muss, no fuss and a complete lack of action.

In fact, the most excitement they experience is when a blizzard hits and they're stuck waiting the storm out because their pilot is not experienced enough to fly through it. Phil doesn’t exactly relish the thought of sitting inside a metal cage that's being pelted at by extreme wind, ice and snow, but he can't help but think about how a certain pilot would have been able to fly them through it without batting an eyelash.

It's stupid, because comparing anyone to Melinda May, no matter their merits or brilliance, would always result in them in second place. He says that as an admirer of her skills as an agent, and nothing more.

 

* * *

 

Alice tells him all about her trip to visit her sister’s family for the Christmas Holidays over coffee one afternoon, and he doesn't find the topic particularly intriguing, given that she hasn't spoken about anything other than her sister’s dozen cats with odd names and stranger habits. She's engaging when she speaks, with a wide smile and a twinkle in her eye, and he doesn't need to pretend to be interested, because he is.

Not in the subject of discussion, but rather just watching her and letting her speak.

He invites her to dinner, which he knows is a step forward from their sporadic coffee dates, but she blushes when he tells her how much he looks forward to it, and he thinks he’s doing the right thing for them, and himself. No one can predict what will come tomorrow - at least no one he knows of, and he wants to enjoy the present as it is, for as long as he is able.

Maybe two hours is a little too long to spend picking out a suit and tie, but he's always been a bit of a perfectionist when it comes to planning things. Missions and dinner dates are all approached with the same precision, though he's not sure which leave him more stressed. Both have the ability to alter his path in life, for better or for worse.

He's a little jittery all throughout the day, nervous anticipation coursing through his veins as he tries to keep focused on his work. For some reason, it feels like someone or something is watching him, lurking in the darkness and observing his every move. The sensation is quite unsettling, but given that he's in a building full of spies, he brushes it off. More than once he's found himself studying his colleagues, analysing them as practice, so it's more than likely someone else could be doing the same to him. 

Phil forces himself to remain nonchalant about the matter, acting as though he has not noticed anything is out of the ordinarily. If someone is trying to hone their skills during work hours, he applauds them for their efforts. It shows initiative, and they clearly need the practice.

The rest of the day passes slowly, uneventfully, until the phone on his desk begins to ring five minutes before he’s due to leave for the day. He frowns, glaring at it for a moment before answering.

“Coulson.”

There’s a familiar laugh coming through from the other end, and he sincerely hopes this isn't someone’s idea of a prank call.

“Coulson! It's Clint. We’re going to Gumshoes tonight, for my big two-six celebrations. You're coming, right?”

Ah right. Clint's birthday. It's not that Phil has forgotten the occasion, but it kind of slipped his mind that Clint would want his presence at any sort of celebration. He doesn't know why. They're friends, after all.

“I'll try my best, but no promises,” he responds eventually, hoping the response is satisfying enough. It's not that he doesn't want to show up and have a couple drinks, but he's rather looking forward to his date and is cautiously optimistic about the evening ahead. He thinks that Clint will likely be too drunk by the end of it to remember whether or not he showed up anyway.

“It's all you can drink, all night.”

The response is evidently an attempt to persuade him, but it doesn't work.

“Happy birthday. I'll see you, if I see you.”

He hears Clint laugh once more before replying.

“Things start at nine, but we’ll be there till the sun comes up if I have a say in it.”

Phil believes him. 

They exchange no more pleasantries, because he has no intention of being late for his date. He still needs to go home and change first, so he hangs up as politely as he can manage without betraying his eagerness to do so, and high tails it out of the office without glancing back.

 

* * *

 

They had agreed to meet at the restaurant, because it would have taken too long for Phil to drive out to her place out in Manhattan, and then all the way back to Brooklyn. He's also pretty sure that the place he chose for dinner won't hold their reservation if they turn up late. It's hardly the most exclusive place in town, but any place that requires bookings at least a week in advance and doesn't take walk-ins probably serves good food. 

He's lucky to have scored a table at the last minute, calling some favours from work. Working for a secret agency has its perks.

The bouquet in his arms has a dozen assorted flowers, all brightly coloured, because red roses had seemed far too much of a cliché, and he really hadn't wanted to go overboard with the materialistic gestures, seeing as this was to be their first proper dinner date. Even though it's close to freezing, he waits outside the restaurant, trying to reign in his excitement, and his breath catches in his throat when he sees her making her way over. 

The practicality of her sensible heels and warm winter’s coat and gloves stand out to him, and he smiles, offering her his arm when she reaches him.

“These are for you,” he tells her as he hands her the flowers, and he knows that he's made the right choice when her eyes light up.

They comment on the weather as they enter, being hit with a shock of warm air the moment they step through the front doors. The restaurant is packed, most tables occupied, majority of guests made up of couples similar to him in age. They’re lead to their table by a well-dressed host, who informs them that a waiter will be by momentarily to take their orders. 

The first few minutes go smoothly. He pulls out her chair and helps her with her coat, and they sit and converse about what they might like to have for dinner. The menu offers many options, and as usual, Phil is torn between choosing something practical that he won't regret later on, or taking a risk and trying something new, something different.

He doesn't surprise himself when he decides on the safest options. Soup for the appetiser, followed by steak with customisable sides. He isn't going to take advantage of the customisable part either, sticking with the classic potatoes and salad. Soufflé to round it all out. It's simple, a little boring, but he knows that he’ll enjoy it well enough.

Phil has never really been one for taking risks.

Someone comes by to fill their water glasses, and they make small talk to pass the time. She blushes when he compliments her on her outfit, and he's struck by how gentle and shy she is, even now. 

It's nice though. 

His cheery mood doesn't last long, in fact, it's almost completely obliterated the moment a waiter appears to take their orders, and he looks up, catching a pair of familiar figures out of the corner of his eye. They're sitting at a table across the room, dressed to the nines and with eyes for no one but each other.

Clint. And Melinda.

He's… he doesn't know what to think. If he stares for any longer, one of them is bound to notice, and he's pretty sure his date won't appreciate him gawking at another table for the rest of the evening. He forces himself to turn his attention back to the menu in his hands, taking a deep breath and remaining as calm as possible as he places his order, allowing her to do the same. 

When the waiter leaves, she starts up another conversation, this time about a stray kitten she had seen on the way to work, and he does his best to concentrate on her words, her smile, and not the image of his friends, on a… on a date. 

There’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he's pretty sure it's not going to go away.

 

* * *

 

Phil tries, he really does, and for the most part, he succeeds in concentrating on his own date for the rest of the evening. Despite how shy and reserved Alice is, she's also quite charming and endearing in her own way, and he likes her, he really does.

He's just not sure if it's enough.

She excuses herself to use the restroom after he pays the bill, and in her absence he allows his gaze to drift over to the exact spot he'd been avoiding throughout the night.

The table is empty.

He doesn't allow himself to wonder where they've gone, or what they were doing, or even dwell on his conflicting thoughts and feelings any longer, because all it does is give him one huge headache. There's no logical reason why he should be acting this way, and there's little he can actually do about it. He takes in another shaky breath, reaching for his glass and downing the remnants of the liquid inside when a shadow falls over him and he ends up choking on his drink.

“Phil.”

It's Melinda who speaks, and she looks way too amused with herself as Clint pats him on the back, “trying” to help him recover from his bout of coughing. He's managed to spray wine all over the table in front of him, and thanks whatever force had pushed him to pick the Chardonnay over the Merlot, because at least these stains aren't quite visible. 

“You know, you could have told me you couldn't make it tonight because you were going out with a girl.”

Clint holds a hand over his heart, pretending to look hurt, and Melinda rolls her eyes, a gesture so familiar that to him that Phil cannot help but relax a little.

“Birdbrain over here was convinced you were hiding something.”

Melinda gestures to Clint as she speaks, exasperation evident in her tone, and Phil tries his best to tear his gaze away from her, not wanting to be caught staring. Her hair is up in a high ponytail, and he can see the shape of her face, the line of her jaw and curve of her neck. The purple dress she has on is classy, elegant, and he knows it's Clint’s favourite colour. 

He also knows he’s lingered a little too long when she quirks her brow at him, and he immediately redirects his attention to Clint, who appears to be pulling a face at both of them. 

“Excuse me. You were the one who said that he was acting suspicious all day. I trusted your instincts.”

“I didn't expect you to insist we follow him on his date.”

Phil by now is completely lost, having no idea where the conservation has veered off to. Why on earth would Melinda tell Clint he was acting suspiciously? How would she even know? All of that still does little to explain why they're here, and his brain cannot process the facts fast enough to keep up. He doesn't have much time to dwell on the matter though, because his date is surely finished in the restroom by now, and he shoots Clint a pointed look.

“Gumshoes. We’ll be there all night.”

With that, the pair retreat, and not a second too soon, because he sees Alice making her way back towards him, completely oblivious to the events that had occurred in her absence. He thinks that if he's going to make it through the night while trying to keep his sanity, he’ll probably have to try and forget about it too.

 

* * *

 

When he drops her off at her apartment, she invites him in for a drink, and he knows exactly where the night is heading if he should choose to accept.

He hasn't been with anyone for quite some time, work, among other things, constantly getting in the way of his life. 

It's easy to say yes, follow her inside and take their relationship to the next level.

He doesn't. 

 

* * *

 

With a name like Gumshoes, Melinda had expected some low-end seedy bar, filled with alcoholics and guys like Clint who didn't care what they were funnelling into their bodies. 

She's pleasantly surprised by the decor and patronage, and even more so at the enthusiastic cheers when they make their way inside.

Clint’s popular.

That, she isn't shocked by.

While he's being pulled into hugs by what appears to be every single person in the entire room, she heads for the bar, ordering herself a shot of whiskey, and then searching for a dark corner to slink off to. There are several booths to one side of the room where the lights don't quite reach, and she finds herself curling up against the leather, drink in one hand as she observes from afar.

She's tired.

Not physically. Her shoes hurt her feet, and the dress she squeezed herself into doesn't exactly allow much room for movement, but these little discomforts can easily be ignored. It’s been a long day, flying up from D.C. and then slinking around the New York base from nine till five, and then everything afterwards up until now. 

It's her mind that’s exhausted. 

She knows what she needs now, and there’s a room full of people who can easily provide the type of release her body needs, and yet she's reluctant to put herself out there. There's something holding her back, but she needs another four or five drinks in her system before she's willing to even think about such things. She manages to stay in her little hiding spot for about twenty minutes before Clint finds her and pulls her around the room, introducing her to all of his friends.

Melinda isn't one to judge, but she's pretty sure some of these people are criminals. Actually, knowing Clint’s past participation in murder for hire, she's pretty confident that many of his friends are wanted by one or more government agencies for a variety of transgressions. They all seem to be polite and respectable on the outside, but then again, so does Clint and she's well acquainted with his hit list.

She manages to retreat once more after she's shaken the hand of just about every person in the room, returning to the booth where she had sought refuge earlier. 

The music is loud and people are drinking and dancing, but she feels most comfortable here, away from all the action, a distinct contrast from her preferences out in the field. She has no intention of braving the crowd to grab a drink from the bar, not willing to risk being dragged into a conversation with a stranger, so she closes her eyes, blocking out the music with her mind, focusing on her own breathing. It works quite well, until she feels someone moving into her space, and a gentle thump against the table in front of her. 

The first thing she sees upon opening her eyes is a bottle of beer, standing upon a coaster with the bar’s logo upon it, and she doesn't need to turn to know who it is that has interrupted her solitude. She reaches for the bottle, feeling the cold glass as she twists the cap off, and downs a third of the contents in one go.

He doesn't speak, but she can see his shadowy figure at the edge of her vision doing much the same.

She doesn't mind that he's in her space, in fact, his presence hasn't changed all that much. It's as if the world around them is still turning on, and they're locked away in a pocket of time where little is happening. 

It's nice while it lasts.

They go their separate ways before the night is done, her dragging herself out into the crowd to mingle and him making his excuses to leave, walking two blocks home in the snow to his Brooklyn apartment. Their goodbyes are quick, quiet and go unnoticed by others around them. 

She doesn’t see him again for a month. 

 

* * *

 

Melinda is pretty confident she and Clint are terrible influences on one another. After a series of pranks on one another, their team-ups cause havoc amongst the ranks of poor S.H.I.E.L.D. agents who are unfortunate enough to stumble upon their idea of a harmless practical joke. 

Following Clint’s birthday celebrations, also known as the morning of the great hangovers, he comes up with his most ridiculous idea yet. 

“We should get Phil to grow a moustache.”

Melinda pauses, trying to picture it for a moment, before bursting into an uncontrollable bout of laughter that has her entire body shaking. They’re both still intoxicated, as are the other seventeen people in Clint’s apartment, sleeping off the previous evening’s events, but neither of them forget about it by the time they sober up. 

She reconsiders the prank several times, wondering if they're crossing a line by tricking their friend, but Clint reminds her that they're not forcing the events to occur, but merely paving a pathway that could possibly lead to a whole lot of hilarity for them. There's no guarantee they’ll succeed, but she agrees to give it one shot.

Now there's only the matter of how and when she’s going to make it happen.

 

* * *

 

The rest of January passes in a blur of missions and paperwork, and Phil barely has time to take a breath, let alone a moment to think about anything other than work. He travels to seven states in three weeks, works with different teams from different agencies and even goes undercover twice. He likes playing the bad-ass weapons dealer looking to acquire illegal firearms, not so much the bumbling sales representative who “accidentally” gets himself caught up in gang activity and is held hostage for thirty-six hours to gain intelligence about future operations. The cuffs they slap on him are an insult to his abilities, and it takes all his restraint to not just slip out of them and make an escape. He stays put though, and the extraction team rescues him without any hassle, picking up a dozen criminals along the way. 

Two days later he’s off running back-end, all the way down in Tijuana. 

It seems that the world’s problems have a habit of happening all at once, before fading away for weeks at a time. 

Phil thinks he should be grateful that he’s offered any downtime at all. In fact, his life is so busy he almost forgets about February the thirteenth, and his trip to D.C.

Almost. 

He can barely sleep the night before, afraid to even imagine what might be in store for him. There are distinct outcomes he considers impossible, but fears the occurrence of all the same, unable to rehearse how he might react should they defy the odds and happen. His day at the office drags by so slowly it feels like a unique brand of torture designed just for him, and by the time he's able to clock off, he's buzzing with nerves and excitement.

It’ll take an hour to fly there by hitching a ride on one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s many airborne mobile command units, and he’s sincerely hoping that his trip won't be a colossal waste of time. 

 

* * *

 

_Communication_ is by far one of the strangest places Phil has ever visited, and he's including mission destinations in this particular list. On the outside, it looks like any other high-end bar and lounge, with a light up sign and windows tinted dark as to conceal the activities taking place within. 

The interior looks like the designer changed their mind a hundred times before the construction was completed, a mishmash of different styles, a fusion of classic and contemporary gone wrong. It reminds him of a piece by Picasso, but executed with far less finesse. He's not surprised that the place is already packed, even though it's only half past seven. The patterns that are an eyesore when sober probably look like a rainbow hallucination when intoxicated, and he can see the appeal.

Despite the place being close to full capacity, he still manages to find himself a seat at the bar, wedged between a grumpy businessman and a rather frazzled looking woman crying into her cocktail. 

It's no surprise why that particular bar stool had been empty.

He orders himself a drink to pass the time, sipping slowly while keeping an eye on the time, gaze darting to his wrist to check his watch about every thirty seconds on average. The seconds tick by in slow motion, until it’s finally, eight and he waves the bartender over, hoping not to make a fool of himself when he speaks. 

“Um, I'm the Star Spangled Man.... with a plan.”

It seems as though everyone within hearing distance turns in his direction as he speaks, and he can feel the heat rushing to his cheeks, embarrassed by the words that had just come out of his mouth. Luckily for him, the bartender seems to recognise his message, and tilts his head towards the side door, gesturing for Phil to follow as he heads in that direction. 

He really hopes he isn't about to get shanked behind a bar.

The nondescript black SUV that pulls up, blocking the exit to the back alleyway does little to soothe his fears. In fact, he feels like he's being kidnapped when the bartender opens the door and half shoves him inside, slamming it closed afterwards.

“You know, I wasn't sure if you were going to turn up.”

Phil looks up, following the source of the voice and sees Melinda, lounging casually by his side, a familiar smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“We couldn't have just arranged to meet up inside like two normal people?” He asks, after the initial shock has worn off, and he's given a chance to catch his breath once more.

She laughs.

“Now where’s the fun in that?”

 

* * *

 

Melinda insists that he closes his eyes as the car comes to a stop at a location approximately ten minutes later. His internal compass is a little out of whack but he hopes she isn't going to trick him into walking straight into the Potomac.

That would be rather cruel.

He doesn't dare peek, afraid of her reaction should he try to do so, and allows her to lead him around, her grasp firm around his upper arm. Somehow he makes it up several flights of stairs without tripping over his feet, and he's distinctly aware of entering a well-lit building, able to see the light even with his eyes closed.

They come to a stop after several more twists and turns, and Phil tries not to sway on the spot, awaiting further directions.

“You can open your eyes now.”

Melinda’s voice echoes through the room, and Phil takes in a deep breath before he does as she instructs, almost staggering in awe as he takes in his surroundings.

“Shit.”

He's dimly aware of her laughter, background noise to him in this moment, as he turns in a circle, trying to get a grasp of where exactly it is he's standing.

The World War II Exhibit at the Smithsonian.

Phil can scarcely believe it.

He's been wanting to visit for so long, but he's never really in D.C. on his own time, always occupied with S.H.I.E.L.D. business when he is in town. It's like a dream come true.

“Thank you.”

He doesn't know how else to express his gratitude other than to sweep Melinda into a hug, smiling when she pats him gently on the back. It lasts more than a fraction too long, but she doesn't look particularly annoyed when they pull apart. She squeezes his upper arm once and gestures towards the displays, which he takes as a sign for him to go ahead and explore to his heart’s content.

And he does.

Melinda trails along as he moves around, taking his time to admire everything around him, chattering on at a mile an hour about the history of each artefact on display. She's endlessly patient, listening to him prattle on, and his excitement doesn't fade even as they near the end of the exhibit.

For the third time.

He lingers by the area dedicated to Captain America, marvelling at the sights and reluctant to leave, even though he realises they’ve stayed well into the night. Melinda doesn't seem bothered by his obsession in the slightest. In fact, she seems rather intrigued herself, looking at photos of the Captain, the Howling Commandos and Howard Stark.

“He has quite a fine moustache,” she murmurs at one point, and he looks towards her with his brows raised, trying to figure out if her comment is serious or a joke. She's staring intently at the image of a younger Howard Stark, and he recalls having once seen one of her dates in passing who had his facial hair styled in a similar fashion.

Phil reaches up to brush over his upper lip, feeling the slight stubble beneath his fingertips and wondering if it might be time to change his look. Clint hadn't been wrong calling him a stick in the mud, back when they had first met. He wasn't exactly adventurous when it came to his appearance. 

The thought quickly falls to the back of his mind however, when he takes advantage of Melinda’s unwavering focus on the exhibit, to study her for a moment. She looks as she always does, calm, confident and just the right amount of frightening and intimidating. Her hair, again pulled into a high ponytail, seems a little shorter than he recalls from last month, but then again, the difference isn't enough for him to make a definite assumption. 

He quickly redirects his focus back to the Howling Commandos when Melinda turns in his direction, and hopes he's gotten away without her noticing his lingering looks. 

She says nothing, but he's not particularly inclined to sneak a glance and check her expression for a reaction. They walk around for a while longer, pausing when they near the entrance to the room. 

“It's nearly midnight,” Melinda tells him, a gentle hand on his elbow, and he feels like a child being asked to leave a candy store.

Phil continues his chatter as they make their way out, but doesn't miss the way Melinda nods at the guards on duty. 

“How did you swing this?” he asks her, wondering why the query hadn’t crossed his mind before. The excitement had pushed aside all other matters, and he now takes the time to consider the magnitude of this gift she's presented him with.

His silly little thumb tacks pale in comparison. 

“I may have asked Peggy to pull a few strings. She would have given you the tour herself, but she's out of town, visiting her grandchildren.”

As much as Phil would love the experience, listening to war stories from Agent Carter herself, he's rather fond of his own company, no matter how wrong his mind tells him it is. The more time he spends with Melinda, the more difficult it becomes to see her as simply a colleague, a friend. Being around her is all-consuming; she draws his attention in a way he cannot control, and he knows he has to try harder if things are going to remain the way they are.

She's a really, really good friend.

 

* * *

 

It's half past one in the morning when Melinda leaves him at the temporary housing facilities near Headquarters. Their driver, one of former Director Carter’s personal chauffeurs, had waited for them during their exploration at the Smithsonian and dropped them off by the Triskelion, leaving them to make the last fifteen minutes of their journey by foot. After Melinda reassures him that she’ll have no problem heading home alone, stating her intention of borrowing an on-site car from the garage and promising to return it in one piece, they head off towards the block of buildings that make up the housing facilities.

The last of the winter’s snow drifts down upon them as they make their along the riverside, and as much as Phil enjoys the tranquillity of the world around him in these moments, he's relieved when they make it to their destination, thankful for the heating.

“You're not going to hear from me for a while,” she tells him before she goes, and he knows what that translates to; a long-term operation with little outside contact. He's never gone more than a couple of months on a mission, but he knows some agents spend half their lives chasing after leads on the same target. Some spend years undercover, so long that they almost forget themselves, lost in the persona of the character they've been tasked with playing. 

Phil cannot imagine doing so.

“Classified?” he asks with a smirk, and she rolls her eyes, nudging his shoulder with her own.

“Way above your pay grade,” she jokes, shaking her head. He can tell she wants to say more, and tries not to show his frustration when she doesn't.

“You can tell me all about it when you get back.”

She smiles and wishes him a goodnight, leaving him to wave awkwardly at her retreating form, fond memories of the evening they had shared already taking up residence in the forefront of his mind. He retreats into his room soon after, slinging his bag down beside one of the empty bunks. Only two of ten are occupied, and he dwells on why that is so for only a moment before flopping down onto the hardened mattress and willing himself to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

It isn't until he arrives back in New York the next day that he realises the occasion.

The city is covered in white, but also red and pink, bouquets of flowers and gift-wrapped chocolates for sale all along the streets. Luckily, he manages to make it into work without being conned into a ridiculously overpriced purchase.

He sits down at his desk, frowning at the malformed chocolate egg, likely from last Easter, lying precariously atop a pile of his paperwork. There’s a post-it note beneath it that reads: Happy V-Day! Clint & Lucky. 

Beside it, there’s a neatly penned note from Alice, inquiring if he would be interested in having dinner at her apartment. He spends only five minutes antagonising over his choices, before folding the note back up and sliding it to the edge of his desk.

Within two hours he's assigned to an operation in Alabama, scheduled to ship out later in the day.

He does make a trip upstairs to her floor, apologising for the situation and gently letting her down. If he's being honest with himself, he's enjoyed their time together, but he's known all along that she isn't the one for him. 

For now, the prospect of his upcoming mission is enough of a distraction from his lacklustre personal life, and when he reaches into his pockets, feeling the misshapen Easter egg from Clint, he thinks having friends around him will be enough to tide him over.

 

* * *

 

Phil gets back a week later and Agent Geering, who sits one row down and across from him, informs him that his workspace smells like something died in there.

It takes thirty seconds of careful investigation to discover the culprit.

The bottom drawer of his desk is filled with cat faeces, and he thinks it might just be a good idea to stay away from the women he works with. If a disgruntled secretary is pissed off enough to stink up his desk, he dreads to think of what a S.H.I.E.L.D. scientist or specialist could do to him.


	13. XIII

Sebastían Fernández is quite possibly the most confusing man Melinda has ever come across. He’s tall, handsome by the standards of most, and looks every inch the multi-billionaire he is, but there’s also an aura about him that makes him seem, for lack of a better word, bored. The man owns half a dozen island resorts and by all accounts, has want of nothing, yet his demeanour tells her he is barely satisfied by the life that he leads. She realises of course that others may not see it the same way, with his lavish purchases and the extravagance to which he spends each and every day, but from her observations, she feels as though he’s still longing for something he cannot have.

Not that it appears that there's much he desires that he does not already possess, or cannot obtain in the blink of an eye.

This analysis of course, came after two months of working as an administrative assistant on a lower level of his twenty-two floor office building. The woman formerly in the position had quit after being made an offer that _she just couldn't refuse._ Melinda isn't sure how S.H.I.E.L.D. had managed to swing that one, but it's not her job to worry about things like that. There's a dedicated team of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in charge of orchestrating such situations. Her commanding officer had already drafted up an undercover persona for her, one of the communications departments sorting out identification and other particulars before she found herself being shipped out to Spain _indefinitely_ with barely a week’s notice.

It didn't give her much time to do anything other than prepare for the mission. She certainly hadn't been able to come up with an excuse to present to the guy she had been seeing. Harry was a good person, interesting enough and though they had only been on three dates, she thinks they could have lasted a little longer than the month they've been together. Alas, she had not been given much choice on the matter, and instead of asking him out for drinks and letting him down easy, she’d ended up essentially vanishing without a trace.

She’d had different priorities on her last day in D.C, plans with Phil that she would not have cancelled unless the world was ending and she was pulled away to stop it. All she could do was hope that Harry came to the conclusion that she had dumped him without a second thought. She sincerely hoped he hadn't grown attached to her already; that he was not the type who would end up filing a missing person’s report for her because she had not returned his phone calls.

Melinda May might still exist, but she’s not herself now. She hasn't been for months. Upon boarding that flight to Madrid, she had stepped out of her own identity and into that of her false persona, Serena Yang.

_Twenty four. College graduate and former model from California. Fond of drinking, partying and living a life of luxury._

She had scoffed upon reading the brief, rolled her eyes at Agent Thorne, but ultimately didn't question his decision, knowing that with his experience, he would never intentionally steer any of his team in the wrong direction.

Now, she's not so sure.

It's mid-August, which means she's been Spain for half a year now, with little progress on achieving what S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent her out to do.

Uncover evidence of her employer’s criminal activity.

It’s quite possibly the only thing she personally finds remotely remarkable about the man; his ability to conceal his misdemeanours and appear so positively in the public eye. Of course, she supposes it isn’t difficult for the wealthy to cover up their crimes, considering the revenue they must collect for all the illegal things they participate in.

She spent two and a half months in administration before finally managing to catch Mr.  Fernández’s eye at a company fundraiser, wearing a dress her handler had described as “modest but alluring”. It’s unfortunate she has to put her body on display for the job, but from experience, it is the fastest method of obtaining information from clueless men. The task generally involved piquing their interest with her appearance before plying them with enough drinks to knock out an elephant. Uncomfortable, but quick and efficient. Another popular method in their line of work was to tie them up and torture the secrets out of them, but it isn’t really S.H.I.E.L.D.’s style to intentionally cause harm, even where criminals were involved.

It had only taken a minute at his side for Melinda to realise that Fernández would not be so easily swayed. He was more interested in looking at her face, making eye contact, than ogling the rest of her, and for that, she was thankful, even if she was almost completely certain he was involved in the illegal weapons trade that had cost the lives of many innocent people throughout the years.

She had smiled, laughed at his jokes and even demonstrated her aptitude for languages, speaking to him first in English and then Spanish. It had quickly become evident to her that he preferred to converse in his native tongue, and they spent the entire evening sequestered away in a private back room, just talking.

He'd offered her a promotion before the night was over.

Now, after working as one of his three personal assistants for a little over three months, she’s convinced that there is little she can do herself to gather proof against him. He’s secretive, which she doesn’t find surprising, and after multiple sweeps of his office and all of his homes, she’s found nothing that is remotely incriminating. She knows of his _“business partners”,_ knows that there are things discussed and exchanged between the men that are definitely criminal in nature, but not once has she been able to say for sure. It’s not that she doesn’t understand that some missions take time, but she’s already clawed her way to the top, or at least, as high as someone in her current position could ever hope to achieve. She’s accompanied him to business meetings, dinners, galas, company retreats, and short of going the torture method, she has no feasible way of getting the evidence she needs.

As much as she hates to admit it, she needs reinforcements.

She spends several evenings piecing together all she knows about her employer, the others that work for him, people who deal with him, and studies his schedules, favourite foods and preferred alcoholic beverages, how he spends his free time. At the end of it all, she’s managed to determine which of his clients or suppliers are most likely to be involved on the shady side of things, and his favourite method of meeting up with them; showing off his extravagance to potential customers.

When she makes her next dead drop to check in with S.H.I.E.L.D. and update them on her progress, she includes her analysis along with a request for back-up. The response from her handler is delivered the next day, entirely encoded, a single question included within that she answers without a second thought.

_Who would you like us to send?_

 

* * *

 

To date, 1997 has not been the best of years for Phil.

He's not sure he’ll ever encounter anything worse than the years his parents passed away, but for a period of time with no major disasters, the past seven and a half months have not been particularly great.

To his own surprise, it's not his personal life that's causing his poor mood, but rather his professional one. Despite his increased participation in active operations, and his fondness for working as part of a team, he often finds himself feeling as though his skills are a little useless. He hasn't planned a mission in months, and understands that most of the time, as a Level Three agent, it's normal to be playing a team member and not the team leader.

That doesn't do much to make him feel better.

It's not as though he's the most ambitious of all his colleagues, but he does imagine the days where planning and running an operation from beginning to end is a common occurrence, not an event that occurs once or twice in any given year.

He misses being out in the field too.

While analysing their targets and assisting in missions from the comfort of his own desk drastically lowers the chance of him being shot at or run through with a knife, he does find himself longing for a little action. He had trained as a field agent and he hasn't been out there for several months now.

Phil’s pretty sure that even the civilian employees of their agency, experts in only their varying fields, have seen more action than he has. Watching as the specialists and other field agents are given opportunities to participate in the more active part of espionage leaves him a little bitter. Being assigned to work with Garrett two times in three months comes close to driving him insane.

It's not that he’s asking to walk out into a war zone, guns blazing, with the fear of dying in enemy territory, but a little more _active_ participation would be nice. With all the spare time on his hands, given that his social calendar is empty bar for evenings spent at bars with fellow agents or watching cop shows with Clint, he's been pushing himself to train more often. He's managed to best Clint several times in their sparring sessions, but he knows that his friend sees better from a distance and is likely to put an arrow through any target of his before they had a chance of coming within a hundred feet of him.

Many of his evenings are spent working out at the nearby underground training facility, and after several months of constant exercise, he feels good, physically. Stronger, healthier. It's become one positive aspect of his life.

The physical change due to his vigilant training is not the only change he has made in this year. He's still not sure why he did it, and figures that he just really needed to alter his image a little, if only to experience a little excitement.

Their lives are so calculated, so precise, and it feels almost like a reward to let one aspect of himself reign uncontrolled. He still remembers the morning it began, when he had taken a good long look at himself in the mirror and set his razor down.

If only the hair upon the top of his head grew as vigorously.

The beard had taken him well over four months cultivate, but after three days he had rid himself of most of it, deciding that a full face of hair was not for him. He'd kept a moustache, despite not being entirely sure whether or not it suited him, though judging by Clint’s expression the first time he saw it, Phil is not confident that he's pulling off the look. In fact, he feels as though he’s being mocked, and it's honestly not too difficult to figure out why.

He's reluctant to shave it off though, tells himself that he could get used to it, that it's probably an acquired taste, ignoring all other reasons why he might be so inclined to keep it.

That he needs to see her reaction before he gets rid of it entirely.

 

* * *

 

His dry spell or six month slump as he refers to it in his mind, comes to an end late one afternoon when Agent Dorsey, a Level Two field agent who he's met only twice before, shows up at the Denver S.H.I.E.L.D. base he’s been visiting for the past week, and announces that he's been reassigned.

Phil doesn't jump for joy, but comes pretty close to it, hiding his expression of glee whilst collecting his things, and following Agent Dorsey out the door and onto a S.H.I.E.L.D. jet bound for, well, he has no idea where he's headed but it has to hold more excitement than browsing through video recordings and analysing a man’s gait.

He does manage to keep quiet and listen attentively as Agent Dorsey explains the more important details of his mission, knowing that his elated smile will likely only make her uncomfortable.

“Agent Thorne requested your participation on the operation he’s been running. You’ll be going undercover in Spain. It says in your file that you have a _vacation_ level proficiency in the language, that you studied it for two years during high school.”

She pauses, waiting for his confirmation of her facts, and only continues speaking after his jerky nod.

“We’ll be touching down in New York to refuel and pick up your car, the 1962 Chevrolet Corvette, license plate three-eight-one papa, charlie, echo. We have also arranged for all forms of identification and enough clothing for three weeks. Accounting has provided access to funds should they be required, both cash and credit are available. Further details and instructions are contained within your information packet, and Agent Thorne will brief you himself once we touch down in Spain.”

Phil nods once more, far less jittery from excitement this time, having regained some semblance of control over his movements, and accepts the folder she is handing him with a quiet thanks. She leaves him then, likely retreating to the cockpit, he doesn't actually notice where she goes, entirely focused on the information he needs to absorb before he has to lose himself and become someone else.

By his calculations he has anywhere from twelve to fourteen hours before they reach Madrid, depending on how long it takes them to collect Lola.

He sincerely hopes his brain can cope with the information overload.

 

* * *

 

S.H.I.E.L.D. has always been efficient at handling situations, dealing with things before the general public even realise a disaster has occurred. Even so, when Melinda had requested back-up, she hadn’t expected an immediate reply from her handler that help was on the way. She’s rather grown accustomed to fixing the problem before reinforcements even have a chance to turn up.

This mission is far from ordinary however, and she is fully aware that their goals may never be accomplished with just her in the fold.

They needed another player to make things work.

Agent Garvin had informed her within twenty-four hours that her back-up was on his way, delivering a message that passed through a dozen inconspicuous routes before reaching her hands. She understands why they don't provide any further information about her back-up, knows it will be more authentic if she truly knows nothing of his background or even his name when they meet. All she can do now is continue on as usual until help appears, and try and figure things out from there on out

The wait begins, and the wait does not last.

Only two days later, Fernández calls her into his office, along with the two other girls who share her role, and tells them he’s meeting a potential customer that afternoon. She's not Melinda May, only Serena Yang, so her sole reaction is to smile and await further instructions from him.

“Lucia. You can meet up with Mr. Livingston at his hotel. The driver is waiting down stairs with Javier. He’ll tell you everything you need to know, and help interpret on the way back.”

He addresses the most experienced of the three of them first; Lucia, whose friendly smile is always genuine. Lucia, who is only twenty five, and has been working as Fernández’s personal assistant for three years now, out lasting several girls who had married and quit only months after taking the position.

 _Serena_ and Lucia are good friends, though _Serena_ is secretly scheming to take over as their employer’s favourite. Melinda, well Melinda thinks that she probably would only be able to stand Lucia in small doses; knowing that the girl’s overwhelming positive presence and fondness for conversation would not mesh well with her own personality.

“Valentina, I want you to go and clear my schedule, and take my three o’clock meeting with Mrs. Perez about the funds they need to remodel the Fuerteventura location. Make sure you collect the proposal and deliver it to Nick by the end of today.”

Valentina, well she's awful. _Serena_ loathes her, but not nearly as much as Melinda does. She claims to be twenty-three but is really twenty-nine, and definitely did not grow up in Barcelona. Her mispronunciation when speaking English is pulled off well, but Melinda knows a fake accent when she hears one. She's been working for Fernández for close to a year, and doesn't take lightly to people trying to usurp her position.

Her posture is rigid and she barely conceals a frown when Fernández dismisses her to carry out his instructions, not bothering to hold open the door for Lucia who is following her. There's an awkward pause for a moment or two, but once they're alone, Fernández turns to her with a smile.

“Serena. You will stay with me today and meet with this Mr. Livingston. He is from America, like you, and I should hope you will have many things to contribute to our conversation when called upon.”

She nods in assent, and her excitement is not feigned. The light in her eyes and the smile on her face are genuine, because for the first time since she's been here, she finds that she has something to look forward to.

 

* * *

 

It takes every ounce of control within her to conceal her reaction when _Serena_ meets _Mr. Evan Livingston_ for the first time.

When he enters, Lucia at his side, she is standing behind Fernández, smoothing down her skirt and idly twirling a strand of her now dark auburn hair around one finger. She doesn't have a chance to see his reaction to her undercover appearance, because she's too busy trying not to burst into laughter at the sight of his face.

Poor Phil really had gone and grown a moustache.

She knows she will feel bad about it later, but she can only see the humour in the situation right now, and breaks free from her cover’s mind for a moment to imagine the look on Clint’s face when Phil had debuted his moustache for the first time. Honestly, she had not expected him to actually be convinced to change his physical appearance, having been so subtle with her hints.

Lucia makes the introductions as well as she can in a mix of Spanish and broken English, and all Melinda does is stand back and observe as Phil exudes confidence as she's always known him to be able, but has so rarely seen. He’s proud and elusive, and shakes Fernández’s hand with a grip she's sure is firmer than necessary.

“And this is Serena, another of Mr. Fernández’s assistants.”

She’s all smiles when Phil turns in her direction, and she is sure to conceal any hint of recognition as she steps forward, holding her hand out for him to shake. He grasps her hand gently, between his thumb and index fingers, bending forward to brush a kiss across her knuckles. The hair on his upper lip scratches at her skin and the feeling is not entirely unpleasant.

“Enchanted to make your acquaintance,” he tells her as he rises, still holding onto her hand, and she does exactly as one might expect. She blushes, only slightly and just visible enough to those within her proximity to notice, and repeats his sentiments.

Melinda knows that Fernández is watching them intently, knows that their introductions have made just the impact that she intended. She subtly wriggles her fingers and Phil releases her hand, but doesn't take his eyes off her, even as they take their respective seats and the men begin to discuss business matters.

The conversation is incredibly boring for her to sit through.

She counts to ten thousand, two hundred and eighty-four seconds in her mind before things wrap up, and waits in silent anticipation as _Evan_ , delivers the lines that lure Mr. Livingston onto the hook.

“It was eye opening to speak with you in person Sebastían. I've heard many great things from some of our mutual friends. I will have to think over my decisions to invest in your stocks though.”

Sebastían Fernández is a man who likes going after things that provide him with at least a little opposition, and as she sneaks a glance to gauge his expression, she knows that he's found his newest _challenge._

“I completely understand, Evan. These decisions are not to be made lightly after all. Perhaps we can meet for dinner sometime in the following week, when you have had a chance to consider my offer.”

There's an air of arrogance about Phil as he smiles, and pauses as though he is seriously thinking about agreeing, before he shakes his head.

“I have a meeting tonight and another three tomorrow with others who are also looking for investors. I'm a wealthy man Sebastian, but my funds are not limitless. I will have to choose wisely, to see who provides me with the most lucrative offer. I am not easily persuaded, but I am not a hard man to please.”

He turns to her as he says those last few words, staring into her eyes with a little smirk.

“I do hope things work out in both our favours.”

With that he leaves, and she watches him go, her gaze trailing over his retreating figure. It's not just the little prank she and Clint had successfully pulled off that's changed his appearance. There's something else that she can't quite put her finger on. He looks taller almost, which she knows to be an impossibility.

When the door falls closed behind him, she feels Fernández look to her, and when she moves to face him, she can practically see the gears turning in his mind.

“Evan Livingston is quite taken with you it seems.”

She laughs at that, tilting her head and allowing her hair to fall over one shoulder.

“He is a very formidable man. And handsome too.”

Melinda certainly does not miss the way Fernández nods to himself, as if contemplating a harrowing thought, before a satisfied smile appears across his face.

“I'm sure you would not object to paying such a _handsome and formidable_ _man_ a visit. Tonight perhaps?”

He poses it as a question, but she knows it’s really a command. It's clear to her that in his eyes, his job will succeed should Evan Livingston be given exactly what he wanted.

And the thing he appeared to desire above all else was her.

It's not the first time he's sent one of his assistants to _charm the pants off_ a potential business partner. That's how he loses them most of the time; they end up transferring over to work for these other men. If they're lucky enough, they receive a shiny diamond ring instead of fat cheques every month.

“I'll go and prepare right away,” she tells him, trying her best to ignore the urge to turn around and break his nose when he pats her on the arm and tells her she’s a _good girl._

She actually has to remind herself that she’s not supposed to be Melinda May, that she has to keeping acting like someone she isn't so they can wrap things up and she can go home. Short undercover missions had always been entertaining, especially when she had a good team to work with, but this has been torture.

At least she does have one thing to look forward to now, able to act alongside someone whom she trusts so utterly and completely. Whilst she had requested Phil as her back-up, she was not used to getting what she wanted. S.H.I.E.L.D. could have easily sent someone who was completely incompetent, and she's ever so thankful that it's him.

Even though he looks ridiculous with that moustache, and she has no idea how she's going to let him know without completely crushing his confidence.

 

* * *

 

Phil is exhausted upon returning to his hotel suite later that evening, having sat through a fake meeting with another agent, the two of them pretending to discuss important business matters all while making small talk about the weather. It’s summer. It’s Spain. It’s hot. There really was not much else one could say about the matter. He doesn't even make it into the bedroom area, collapsing on the couch and loosening his tie with one hand, hoping to rest for a moment before looking over the mission files once more.

He hasn't slept a wink in almost forty-eight hours.

It makes him remember the early days, back when he was afflicted with insomnia after a mission went south, and whilst the fear has somewhat faded over the years, he still has occasional nightmares. One cannot work surrounded by so much chaos and come out unscathed. That's not how the world is. He’s always going to feel guilty when a person, whether a criminal or an innocent, dies as a result of his actions or inaction. But over time it’s like he’s developed a sort of barrier around his mind, to protect himself from the horrors of the things they encounter during missions. It’s not that he’s detached or immune from the outcomes of the split second decisions they have to make on a daily basis, but he’s grown to understand that there’s no use despairing over events that have already transpired.

He can only learn from his mistakes.

He yawns into the back of his hand, blinking hard several times to try and keep himself awake. Weariness hangs over him like a dark cloud, but he is planning to sleep through most of tomorrow, the meetings he had scheduled of course being lies, fabricated to capture the interest of their target. His associates, played by other Level One and Two Specialists on Thorne’s team will follow in his example from today, and engineer false meetings in case they're being monitored.

It never does hurt to be too safe.

They're playing this one by ear though. It's quite like a board game, where they cannot make their move until their opponent has done the same. The only difference is that no one has the ability to see five steps ahead, or gauge the possible outcome from where they are now.

He's read Melinda’s report on Sebastían Fernández, and understands the man well enough to know the most effective way to communicate with him. They've already concluded that the only way incriminate him is to find solid evidence, and that the best method is to seize it during the exchange, when they can see for themselves the proof that he's been coordinating the production of weapons designed based on technology from the Second World War.

More specifically, Hitler’s deep science division.

Hydra.

The organisation may no longer exist, but their ideas, plans and formulas still do. It's not hard to imagine that people seeking to cause harm would try and recreate, improve upon the technology that was designed over fifty years ago. They need to put an end to this before the distribution becomes even more difficult to contain, before more innocent lives are taken by the folly of a handful of bad men.

Phil feels rather vital to this operation, despite being fully aware that Thorne could have found any Agent to play the part. He's not going to complain though, being given the opportunity to parade around amongst such luxuries, and play an important role in taking a criminal down; he only wonders why him and not someone else. The only explanation he can come up with is that he's had successful team ups with Melinda in the past, and that Thorne had taken this into consideration when selecting him for the role.

That would only add to the list of reasons he had to thank her for.

He's still in awe of the night they had spent together at the Smithsonian, completely floored by her gestures. That event really has been the highlight of his year, though he suspects the next few days, weeks or months may just top that. They're trained to work with any member of their agency, but there are always those that you mesh well with, and those who you would rather never see, always coincidentally stationed on different continents.

Melinda May is without a doubt, his favourite partner.

Personal matters and friendships aside, he trusts her as an agent, as a person. He trusts her capabilities to save them from unfortunate situations, and in the few areas where she struggles, he excels. It's cheesy to say that they fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, but that's how it is.

He's looking forward to working undercover with her again. It's been far too long, though deep down he knows that's a good thing. Spending extended periods of time around her tends to do things to his mind, weaken his defenses, and he needs to ensure that between the two of them, the dedication to their work and S.H.I.E.L.D. always comes first.

That their friendship always comes first.

Though with the way this mission is developing, they'll likely end up playing a couple again. That's not too hard for him, pretending to be someone else. It's easier to disassociate with himself and his own feelings when he's in someone else’s skin. He just has to look at her and see her cover, and not Melinda May.

The similarities are endless, but the differences add up and are enough for him to identify. Just looking at the physical aspect, her cover is a former model, and dresses that way. Her skin is tanned several shades darker, likely from accompanying her boss around to his various beachfront resorts and spending quite some time in the sun. It's probably the same reason her hair is lighter, bleached by the harsh afternoon rays, though it's possible she dyed it for the operation.

She smiles more, though the flashy grins and sultry smirks are rarely genuine, used as a weapon where she cannot use her fists.

There's also this look in her eyes that's different. He had noticed it at the office, the first they had seen each other in half a year. Fondness, longing, attraction and desire, all rolled into one.

He pictures it now and knows that it's the biggest thing that separates her undercover persona from her.

Even in his wildest dreams, he would not hold onto the hope that Melinda May could ever look at him that way.

 

* * *

 

Phil is pulled from his restless slumber by the sound of gentle knocking against the door, and immediately sits up, wincing at the crick in his neck and kinks in his back from having fallen asleep in a less than comfortable position. The gun in his safe is locked and loaded, but he has a feeling he won't need it, if whoever has shown up is who he thinks it is.

He stretches, before rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and moves to the door, taking a quick look through the peephole and proving his own predictions right.

It's Melinda.

But she's not alone.

One of Fernández’s bodyguards had accompanied her, and he quickly straightens himself out, slipping his tie off completely and dropping it out of sight. He undoes the top three buttons of his shirt, righting his collar and smoothing out his hair before plastering a self satisfied smirk on his face and pulling open the door.

“I was hoping it would be you,” is the first thing he says, making an effort to lower his voice as he speaks.

She smiles at him, before turning to the guard and dismissing him. Phil only picks up on about a quarter of the words she uses, but the man nods and retreats, leaving the two of them alone. He pulls open the door wider, escorting her inside with a hand on the small of her back before securing the lock once more.

“It's nice to see you again.”

Melinda is turned away from him, but he’s pretty sure she’s rolling her eyes at him, though any evidence of that vanishes when she turns towards him with a soft smile. She doesn’t seem to have a response for his sentiments, and sinks down onto the couch where he had taken his impromptu nap earlier, waiting for him to join her.

“Fernández sent me to _entertain_ you for the evening, so we should have plenty of time to talk and figure out how we’re going to continue from here.”

She certainly doesn’t waste any time getting down to business, and he supposes that her mind really is all on the mission. Melinda never has been one for exchanging pleasantries, but he had missed her presence in his life for the past six months. He certainly is having trouble not just sitting there and smiling at an idiot, so glad to be working an undercover operation, so glad to be working with her.

If she takes notice of his goofy expression, she makes no mention of it.

 

* * *

 

Phil’s moustache doesn't look any less ridiculous the more she stares at it, and she’s really already making an effort not to. She tries to concentrate on other aspects of him, but everywhere she looks she sees only possibilities for her to completely embarrass herself. Staring into his eyes or at his smile do nothing but make her lose focus, and if he notices her all glassy eyed staring off into space, he’ll surely question what is up.

Observing his facial hair would only lead to her eventually cracking and bursting into a fit of laughter.

Her entire life is centred around control, and yet she always seems to lose her grasp over it where Phil Coulson is concerned.

She tries her best though, to keep her head in the game. There always had been a risk with calling him in, but she did not work nearly half as well with any other agents, and she wants to finish this mission, to move on to the next. It will bring her a sense of peace and satisfaction, as it always does, when they manage to put another criminal away, dead or alive, or prevent another disaster.

They discuss Fernández, other possible players, all the notes she has taken in the past six months and any other observations she has made to date.

Phil honestly looks like he's about to drift off; she can see it in his posture, the way his eyelids droop just ever so slightly. He's a consummate professional of course, and manages to be just as engaging as usual, providing his own insight and analysis and she cannot help but marvel at his abilities.

Each and every agent who chooses this path dedicates part of themselves to S.H.I.E.L.D.

Phil, it seems to her, has dedicated himself entirely. That's one of the many differences between them. Given the situation, there's every possibility that she’ll walk away from S.H.I.E.L.D. one day.

He would likely give his life ten times over in service of their agency.

She hopes that day never comes.

“Hey… are you alright?”

The sound of Phil’s voice, softer than it usually is, interrupts her thoughts abruptly enough to startle her. Her head snaps upwards of it’s own accord, and it is only then she realises she had distracted herself with her thoughts, just as she feared would happen. She allows a small smile to tug at the corner of her lips, before nodding her head slowly, her eyes falling shut for a moment.

Melinda has never been one for long and meaningful conversations, but for some reason she knows talking to Phil will help ease her mind.

“It's been a long time not being me,” she tells him, waiting a moment before opening her eyes once more, and in that time he's moved closer towards her, a look of understanding on his face.

That's something she thinks a civilian will never understand; the lives that spies lead are not easy, and are far from safe. Maybe that's why she constantly seeks safety in the arms of those who know little of the dangers that she sees.

“Just a little longer, and then we’ll get to go home.”

She smiles at his words, a warmth spreading through her body at his use of _we_ instead of _you._ Melinda has the utmost faith that with Phil has her partner, they’ll finish this mission on a high note.

 

* * *

 

Her boss is ecstatic when she turns up to work the next morning, a triumphant grin on her face. The first thing he asks her is how the evening went, and she just smirks, letting his imagination run wild.

“Mr. Livingston has agreed to meet you for dinner tomorrow evening, on the condition that I spend the day with him. Said that he wants a chance to explore the city.”

Fernández nods, clearly pleased with the outcome and quickly distracts himself with his own thoughts, clearly formulating plans about how to proceed.

“Will that be all, Mr. Fernández?”

He seems to contemplate for a moment, before beckoning her closer with one hand, the other reaching for the phone on his desk.

“I will arrange for some funds for you to pick out a new dress for dinner, and anything else that you might need to keep Evan Livingston happy.”

His tone seems just a touch sinister as he says those last few words, but she only smiles wider, thanking him for his generosity before making herself scarce. Part of her feels disgust at spending money that was likely obtained through illegal means, but the other figures it's better off used to buy clothes than ammunition.

 

* * *

 

Melinda arrives at Phil’s hotel late the next morning, wearing a patterned dress casual enough to walk around the city in, but classy enough to be admitted to a fancy restaurant with no fuss. She manages to ditch Diego, one of Fernandez’s many bodyguards, in the lobby, reinforcing to him that she can handle herself. He seems convinced enough and eagerly agrees when she tells him to spend the day at the bar, promising that she’ll keep it a secret from their employer. She watches, entirely amused when he makes a bee-line for the hotel bar, and waits just a few moments longer before she heads to Phil’s suite.

He opens the door before she even has a chance to knock, and she wonders if he had just been standing there, looking through the peephole and waiting for her to arrive. Such actions would be both endearingly sweet and incredibly creepy. On the other hand, he could have detected her footsteps from the moment she exited the elevator, though her shoes are barely audible against the plush grey-brown carpet.

They exchange pleasantries and she takes his arm when he offers it to her, curling her fingers around the crook of his elbow and leaning into his side as they make their way down to the underground car park.

She watches with much amusement as he speaks with a young man working security on that level, handing him several notes that she estimates to be the equivalent of fifty American dollars, which is a little steep for a tip, considering parking is likely included for the kind of suite that he's been staying in. He motions for her to wait, and after she nods in assent, he heads off towards the area where all the cars are parked.

There's not one vehicle in her sight that is worth less than two years of the salary she receives from S.H.I.E.L.D.

It takes about five minutes before she sees any sign of him, when a familiar corvette turns the corner and pulls up right beside her. She raises a brow at him as he hops out, keys in hand, heading over to the passenger's side to grab the door for her. Melinda now knows why he had tipped the guard so generously; extra security for his precious car lest someone dent the door or scratches the paint.

“Maybe I should drive,” she says jokingly, even though the thought process behind it is quite logical. He isn't supposed to know his way around the city, whereas she is, and it would make sense for her to take the lead, bring him to all the places she thinks are worth seeing. In any other scenario she would have demanded the keys, preferring to be behind the wheel, rather than letting someone else direct her to her destination.

It's part of the reason she learned to fly, because she trusts her own mind more than she does others.

This isn't just any old car though.

It's Lola.

She's pretty sure there are not many things in the world that mean as much to Phil as his precious car does. It's understandable, because Lola is a connection between him and his father, though she does not know why that is. He doesn't speak of his family often, the parents that he lost much too early. She doesn't blame him for that - her own parents are very much alive and literally kicking in her mother’s case, and she doesn't like to talk about them either.

Though, she doesn't like to talk about much, so it's not a particularly fair comparison. She makes an effort though, with those she can truly trust, but it's pretty safe to say that not many people fit into that category.

Phil does, and she's sure that he trusts her too, maybe just not with his precious car. She cracks a smile to let him know that she's just teasing, and almost trips over when he tosses the keys in her direction.

It's difficult not to let the surprise show, and he grins at her, hopping into the passenger side seat.

“Don't let anyone else know.”

She scoffs, because it's the only reaction she can come up with in that moment, and hopes that no harm befalls the car while she's in the driver's seat.

 

* * *

 

Later, when they're stuck in traffic in the middle of the city, she sneaks a glance in his direction out of the corner of her eye, and sees the expression upon his face.

Phil is watching her.

He’s smiling.

She knows not what to make of it.

 

* * *

 

That night, they dine at a restaurant in Fernández's Madrid hotel, which ironically, does not serve Spanish food. The menu is a mess of international cuisines and fusion foods, and it's probably a good thing that they have set dishes for the evening, because Melinda has no idea what she would pick if given the choice. Even so, she spends most of the meal just picking at her food, weary of whatever ingredients are contained within the brightly coloured dishes.

Phil does not have the same reservations, eagerly trying everything presented to them, all whilst managing to engage Fernández in a conversation that has little relation to their businesses. They’re discussing cars, which she finds rather stereotypical, and unfortunately in the same respect, she’s stuck talking to Lucia about clothing and hair products.

Truly riveting stuff.

By the time the waiters roll out the dessert course, she’s on her third glass of wine and wishing her alcohol tolerance was a little lower, because there’s only so much of utter boredom that she can handle in one day and what better way to drift away in her mind than to get horribly drunk.

The topic of conversation between Phil and Fernández has gone from their vehicles of choice to their favourite holiday destinations, and she has a feeling that their target is about to spring something on them that will ultimately lead to his own demise. She does not have to wait long for her suspicions to be confirmed. It happens only five minutes later, when she’s halfway through her dessert, an intricate structure built from a mix of at least seven different french pastries.

“You should come to one of my resorts on the islands. They really are quite spectacular. There, we might have more time to discuss our business further, in the company of some of my... dearest friends.”

She isn't surprised in the least.

When she and Phil had discussed the mission two nights ago, they had spent much time drafting up events they thought could happen and situations that had a chance of occurring. She’s meticulous in her own right when it comes to missions, but Phil has always had a knack for analysing everything down to the smallest detail. It's one of the many traits that puts him above most agents.

He had carefully written down each of the scenarios they had come up with, along with the probability of them actually occurring.

“ _Invite to resort to further business_ ”, was considered “ _very likely”_ to happen. It's not that either of them are geniuses in their prediction, given Fernández’s legitimate career as a hotelier, her observation that he had an inclination to win people over through extremely lavish experiences and their knowledge of his desperation to collaborate with a wealthy American businessman who could help him expand his market to the United States.

She knows what's coming next - they had discussed it at length, as they always did when it came to the job. There is no room for errors when the safety of the world is at stake.

“I'm inclined to accept your offer, Sebastían, but I do have one request.”

Melinda watches as Fernández nods, gesturing for Phil to continue, and she allows a small smirk to form upon her face when he turns towards her.

“If only Serena would accompany me for the trip. I find myself to be in an awfully agreeable mood whenever she is around.”

She giggles, because Serena is a giggler, and reaches over to place her hand on his arm. He covers it with his own, fingers curling around hers.

“Of course, of course! All of my personal staff travel with me, but I will make sure that Serena here has the time off.”

Phil smiles, showing teeth, and even without the moustache she would have found it ridiculous, but now it's almost hysterical.

“Then I accept.”

 

* * *

 

The island of Majorca is like nothing she's ever experienced. She's visited her fair share of vacation destinations, both on and off duty, but even when she had taken the time for herself, she had never felt this free.

There's a part of her that wonders if it's the company, one that thinks the notion is ridiculous, and another that worries she's treading on dangerous waters. These smaller parts all joined together equate to very little when most of her is focused on said company. It would be easier if they were themselves, because then she could just ignore him and focus on calming and controlling her mind.

It's hardly practical to pretend that he doesn't exist when they're trying to put on a show for her “employer”, so that he remains entirely unsuspicious about their true intentions.

They're sipping cocktails at an outdoor lounge by the sea and the sun is slowly beginning to set, disappearing beyond the horizon. There's a formal dinner scheduled for them and about a dozen of Fernández’s acquaintances, all of whom she assumes are criminals.

It's just another day at the office really.

Melinda knows they have to be more cautious now than ever, because they're likely surrounded by many who are loyal to their enemies, through either bribery or intimidation. These are people who are likely to warn Fernández and his acquaintances should they catch wind of any _funny business._ She cannot have anything jeopardise this mission, not now, not when they're moving closer and closer towards the end.

“We should probably take a break tonight,” she whispers into his ear, her free hand resting on his chest. He laughs, and to the rest of the world it should only seem that she's told him something incredibly humorous, a little joke made just for the two of them. The words are innocent enough, but she knows that he understands the meaning behind it.

They've been focused on Fernández and the mission since he arrived, and mentally, it's taking a toll. It will only get more difficult, more stressful, as they continue to make progress, and it's best to get a little rest where they can. A break for one night, and then they can take on the world.

Or at least a group of criminals.

 

* * *

 

Phil wonders if the reason he enjoys being undercover so much is that he can say the things that he normally wouldn't say, do the things he normally wouldn't do. There's so much that holds him back in reality, but here, now, he doesn't have to be himself.

He doesn't have to be afraid.

“You're staring.”

Melinda is smirking at him, twirling the straw in her drink with one finger, her other hand resting on his thigh. He knows that none of this is real, her expression, her actions, the glimmer of desire in her eye, and he hates himself for it, but he pretends it's real, just for one moment.

And then he blinks and the illusion is shattered.

He retreats into the safety of his cover immediately, but even as he speaks he hears the truth behind his own words.

“How could I not when in the presence of someone so incredible.”

She laughs, and it sounds so wrong, but he knows she is doing nothing but her job. Melinda has always excelled in the areas where he has a number of shortcomings. If he could control himself half as well as her, then maybe he wouldn't risk jeopardising their friendship and partnership just about every time she was around.

“Maybe you should take a look in the mirror sometime,” she responds softly, reaching out to cup his face. He can feel the flush rising up his neck, threatening to heat his cheeks, but there's a twinkle in her eye that suggests her words have more than one meaning.

It's a riddle he's not sure he wants to solve.

Her thumb brushes the edge of his moustache, and a frown flashes across her face for less than a second, quickly morphing back to the familiar false smile she always wore on missions. He decides to ignore it, and she pats his cheek softly one more time before removing her hand, turning her attention back towards her drink.

Phil notes with much amusement that it’s a tequila sunrise. If it were not out of character do so, he would have made a joke about her ordering a sunrise during sunset, though with his luck, he’s not sure anyone else might find that detail amusing.

The sun is setting though, disappearing from view as a darkness begins to blanket the sky, signalling that the day is coming to an end.

Of course, their evening is only just about to begin.

 

* * *

 

There are times when criminals have a certain look about them, where a single glance in their direction tells you all that you really need to know about them. Sometimes, it's because they're exceedingly nervous, on edge, wary about their surroundings, though those descriptions could also be applied to a particularly jittery agent on their first mission. At other times, it's the vibe they give off no matter what action they're executing, whether it be a smile, a wave, a not so subtle wink to their equally bad associates. It's not that Melinda thinks people should be judged in such a manner, because often there's more underneath than meets the eye.

But as agents they're trained to do so, to make measured assumptions about all those who they encounter.

Fernández’s “ _friends_ ” all seem relatively normal, if one looks past the fame and fortune each of the men has amassed. They're a group of snobby, elitist entrepreneurs, and while she would love nothing more to knock them down a peg by arresting them, she can ascertain nothing _off_ about them that would lead her to suspect they had something shady going on behind closed doors.

It doesn't make her any less suspicious, given that she's managed to procure no evidence of Fernandez’s crimes in the time that she's known him. These men are good at keeping secrets, keeping their activities secret, and that makes them more dangerous. They also seem to be open to Phil buying in on their business, though she knows a concrete offer has yet to be made by him.

They're waiting for the right moment to make a move.

She's not sure Phil, or her for that matter, could be considered experts in that regard.

 

* * *

 

Melinda is about thirty seconds from drifting off when Phil returns to their shared hotel room in the middle of the night. Her first instinct is to sit up and ask him how his post-dinner meeting with Fernandez and his friends went, but then she remembers her own suggestion that they not discuss mission related topics for the evening and shuts her mouth before she can pose a question.

She allows her eyes to fall closed once more, just listening to the sounds of him preparing for bed. He putters around the room for a while before moving to the bathroom, where she's almost sure she can hear him humming above the sounds of the shower. It's difficult for her to just sleep now, and she tries to convince herself that it's because of the noise in the background.

That she isn't keeping herself awake for other reasons.

Phil is noticeably quieter when exits the bathroom maybe twenty minutes later; she thinks he may have been a little tipsy upon his return, having seen just how much alcohol the other men put away at dinner. It's not that he's a lightweight, but she knows he can't hold his liquor as well as some people, herself included. It's kind of sweet that he's making an effort to be quieter, though if he were sober, he would have been able to detect that she was not yet asleep.

He moves around for a while longer, and then there's mostly silence and the faint sounds of his uneven breathing from a distance.

The noble idiot had gone to sleep on the couch.

Normally she might not be as annoyed, but they had made a specific verbal agreement to share the ridiculously large bed upon first seeing it, after checking into the suite that very morning.

It's not possible he's forgotten.

He's deliberately setting himself up for a week of aching muscles by squeezing onto or rather into, the only other surface he likely deemed was acceptable for sleeping. She thinks it would have probably been wiser for him to sleep on the floor. He had likely taken one look in her direction and assumed she wouldn't know better given she appeared unconscious.

It's stupid, because it's not as if they haven't shared a bed before.

She rolls onto her back, opening her eyes and staring up at the ceiling, contemplating how she should handle this situation. It takes all of thirty seconds before she is throwing back the covers and slipping out of bed, walking silently over to where he's curled up for the night.

His eyes are closed but she can tell he has yet to fall asleep, and she bends down slightly, her lips hovering by his ear.

“This is not what we agreed upon.”

He bolts upright, or at least tries to, but ends up colliding with her, their foreheads knocking together with a loud thump. She mutters a curse, rubbing the point of impact with one hand, pointedly glaring at Phil, whose sheepish expression is visible, even in the darkness.

“Sorry, May.”

She's decidedly grumpy now, but his apology sounds so sincere, so she just grabs him by the arm and drags him off the couch and over to the bed, climbing in beneath the covers and turning towards the middle.

“Don't make me count to five.”

He's lying beside her in three.

 

* * *

 

Phil doesn't move around much in his sleep. This is a fact he's been aware of since childhood, and he's only grown more and more still as the years have passed. It's a little annoying really, how much control he seems to subconsciously have over his body whilst he's unconscious, in comparison to when he's awake and _actually_ in control.

So when he blinks awake the next morning, his vision entirely obscured by dark curls, a solid mass of warmth pressed into his side, he wonders how the fuck it's happened again.

He doesn't panic, hurriedly withdraw like part of his mind is trying to tell him to do. Phil is actually quite proud of how calm and collected he is, lying still and listening to Melinda’s breathing patterns to check she's still asleep.

She is.

He carefully extracts his arm from around her waist, knowing any sudden movements are sure to inadvertently rouse her, before slowly shifting his body away from hers. It's incredibly awkward to move like this, shuffling inch by inch until there's an arms length between them, but he's confident that if she were to awaken in their original sleeping position, awkward wouldn't even begin to describe the feeling.

There's no sunlight streaming through the windows, given that the curtains are pulled firmly shut, but he imagines it must be quite late already, because he feels as though he's slept for a century. It’s a little odd that Melinda is still in bed, because she's such an early riser, but he assumes she must be equally, if not more exhausted than he is.

They need to discuss the details of the meeting he had last night, and formulate plans for how they're going to proceed in the following days. He's certain now that Fernández and his friends are funding the manufacture of illegal weapons, but they've yet to actually _say_ that they are, deliberately not elaborating on the _“side project that assists in funding their lifestyles”_. Melinda certainly would have her own opinions and observations about the matter, but he loathes the thought of interrupting her sleep, knowing that they can just as easily speak about it tonight.

Both he and Melinda, well, their covers really, had been invited to spend the night partying on a yacht, but he had very wisely shot down the offer almost immediately. He cannot remember the exact excuse he had come up with, the excessive alcohol from the previous evening having meddled with his mind, but he’s pretty sure it had something to do with _“intimacy and exploration”._

It sounds a little creepy now that he's thinking more clearly.

He lies on his back for a while, deep in thought, until he realises there's no way he's going to be able to stay still for however long it takes for Melinda to wake up. Getting out of bed is like navigating a laser grid with invisible tripwires that'll set off an uncontainable explosive should he make one wrong move, and he realises that he's being a tad dramatic with his description. He's not likely to be killed if he accidentally wakes her up, he just really, really wants to let her sleep.

His watch, sitting on the bedside table, tells him that it's only ten in the morning, which means he'd only had six hours of sleep. It's practically heaven compared to the break times they're given on some missions that require them to keep watch on shifts, but he knows his body, and he rarely feels this energetic after that amount of rest. Especially considering he had not been in the best condition prior to this little vacation.

He decides to take another shower, because why not enjoy the luxuries of an expensive lifestyle while they're given the chance. Accounting can't even complain about the fees, because S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't paying a single cent for it. He spends close to half an hour just standing beneath the hot water flowing from a myriad of different panels above and around him.

His fingers are starting to prune by the time he steps out, pulling a robe around himself. The mirror is fogged up from his shower, and he swipes a hand over it in an attempt to clear away the condensation. His reflection is a but a smeared blur, yet he stands there, staring at himself for too long a time despite not being entirely sure of his own actions.

Maybe the heat is getting to him.

By contrast, the air is chilly when he steps back out into the room, the air conditioning running like it had been since their arrival. Phil likes summer more than most, but heat and humidity don’t make for particularly restful nights, so he is exceedingly grateful for the amenity.

Melinda is just beginning to stir as he makes his way over to the bed, and he sits down the edge and tries his best to appear casual. He doesn't want to seem like he's been waiting for her to wake up for who knows how long. She turns over in his direction, eyes half open, the tiniest crease between her brow, and he's pretty he's never seen anything as adorable as her in this moment.

“Don't say a word,” she grumbles, rubbing her face with the back of one hand as she pushes herself up with the other. Her hair’s a mess, the loose curls from the previous evening having flattened out and tangled together during the night, and he thinks that she most resembles a bunny rabbit right about now, but is certain she could tear him to pieces without batting an eyelash if she wished.

“Tired?” he asks, even though he doesn't need a verbal answer to know that she probably is. She shrugs her shoulders slightly, reaching behind her to prop up her pillow so she can sit back against the headboard.

“How did it go last night?” she asks instead, and it's his turn to shrug, even though he knows she can't actually see him right now. He opens his mouth to give her a proper answer, but before he can get a single word out, there are a series of knocks upon the door to their room.

Their reaction is instantaneous.

Phil sits up a little straighter, but Melinda practically bolts out of bed, shedding her clothes and leaving them haphazardly around the room as she goes. She's down to her underwear when she reaches the clothes he had discarded yesterday, rifling through the pile until she pulls out the his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

His voice is a harsh whisper, low enough so that whoever is outside cannot hear. He expects a sarcastic response, along the lines of “Obviously, I'm taking my clothes off,” but it never comes.

“Keeping cover,” she says instead, and he gulps sharply when she reaches backwards, unhooking her bra and flinging over her shoulder and towards the bed. It lands by his knee, and it would have made him uncomfortable, if he were not distracted by the expanse of her bare back. He watches as she pulls his shirt on, notices how the fabric hangs off her small frame, the hem almost reaching the middle of her thighs.

“I would have let you do it, but we don't exactly have two minutes to spare.”

She's teasing him, but he feels a little insulted.

It was most definitely not his fault that he had been nervous back then; he hadn't gone into that mission expecting to pretend to have sex with his sort of friend slash coworker, and on camera no less. He wants to tell her so, to emphasise that his shaky hands were hardly an accurate representation of his skills, but she's already turning around and heading straight for him.

He barely has a chance to react before she's reaching out and pulling the two sides of his robe apart, leaving him feeling slightly exposed, even though she's the one parading around in underpants and one of his shirts. It's all he can do to only stare at her face and nothing else, not wanting to have to put on an act for their visitor until absolutely necessary.

The knocks sound again, and Melinda shouts _un momento_ , before rushing over, her steps purposely louder than usual. She doesn't just open the door a crack to see who is calling on them.

No, she throws it open, making sure to stand to one side so their visitor can get a good look at the both of them, her half-naked and him sprawled on the bed, the pair of them looking thoroughly fucked.

He feigns disinterest in their company, turning over in bed, but listening closely as Melinda speaks to the woman, who is clearly a member of staff. Again, he has difficulty making sense of their conversation, but quickly realises the topic of discussion when a cart filled with covered dishes is wheeled into the room. He sees it out of the corner of his eye, but stays unmoving in his position, waiting until the door is closed and they're alone once more.

“Compliments of _Mr. Fernández,_ ” Melinda informs him, a hint of disdain in her voice. He sits up again, leaning forward to take a look at the selection of breakfast items which are now directly in front of the bed. Phil reaches forward to grab a plate of eggs benedict, topped with almost a tablespoon of caviar, and thinks that he’ll just try and enjoy the perks of this mission while it lasts.

With his luck, as soon as his time here ends, he’ll be back to sitting in a van in sweltering heat, watching on while others go out and get the job done.

 

* * *

 

The next few days pass in a haze of fine dining, expensive wines and whiskeys, and leisure time spent relaxing indoors at the resort’s many relaxation hot spots. It isn't until they have been in Majorca for six days that they take the time to explore the beach, walking barefoot on the sand, laying in the sunlight and wading through the shallow waves by the shore.

They're heading back to Madrid the next morning, and Melinda thinks it's really a shame they hadn't prioritised their time on the island better. Luxury hotels exist all over the world, but the natural wonders of the world are almost always unique. Of course, lamenting over such things isn't big on her list of priorities, given recent developments.

From Phil’s conversations with Fernández and his associates, they have already ascertained that a shipment of illegal wares will be arriving at an independently owned warehouse in three days. _Evan Livingston_ has been invited to observe, and make a cash deposit in person if he wants to buy in on the business.

She knows that Agent Penn is delivering two million U.S. dollars to them upon their arrival on the mainland, and that if their team lose the funds, the director will have their heads. They have already made contact with their back-up and extraction teams, who are all prepared to move on their signal, and all they have to left to do now is wait.

It's harder than it sounds.

They're lying on the beach now, far enough away from the shore so that an unexpected wave won't douse them from head to toe, but close enough to run and take a dive in the ocean if they desire it. It seems as though the island and its resorts are a popular tourist destination, given the amount of vacation-goers she sees wandering around. Families are building sandcastles together, college students playing volleyball off to one side, and the wealthy are partaking in their favourite pastime.

Getting drunk off their asses.

When she grows tired of eavesdropping on the nonsense the men are spouting, she turns to Phil, who is lying beneath a beach umbrella, his nose buried in a book. His moustache isn't visible from this angle, but that's the only positive. With a sigh, she reaches into her bag, grabbing a tube of sunscreen and walking over towards him, the warm sand shifting beneath her feet with every step.

He doesn't notice her approaching, doesn't even look up from his book until she closes it with one hand, dumping it haphazardly to one side of his towel before sitting down by his side.

“Can you…?” she asks, trailing off with her most convincing flirty grin, her forced expression entirely for the sake of fooling those around them. Phil blinks twice before taking the tube from her, and she strips off the sundress she has on, revealing the white swimsuit underneath. There are cut outs all over the darn thing and she has no intention of walking around for the next few weeks after this with geometrical patterns burned into her skin.

She forces herself to stay still as his hands move over her skin, spreading the cream and going back and forth to ensure an even coverage. He’s definitely shaking a little, not enough to be noticeably visible, but she can feel the shallow tremors transferring from his fingertips to her skin. She cannot hold back the involuntary shudder as he presses a kiss to her shoulder upon completing his task, the bristles of his facial hair scratching at her skin and sending a jolt through her nerves.

Each and every action is meticulously calculated as part of their cover story, and yet it still manages to feel so natural.

She cranes her neck to face him afterwards, and reaches over, toying with the buttons of his shirt until they come loose.

“Come swim with me?”

He pretends to consider it for a moment, but she knows he cannot decline. Their schedule is jam packed after this, and if they want to be at their best during the critical moments that follow, now is the only time they’ll have to discuss any alterations to their plans. When he nods, she leans over and kisses him on the corner of his mouth, before standing and running towards the sea.

The water is cool but not cold, and she wades out further until she's submerged from the neck down, before diving in. She opens her eyes beneath the water and marvels at the clarity, reaching a hand down and picking up a large shell that was previously half buried in the sand. There's an interesting pattern across it, and she traces it with her fingers before letting go, allowing it to slowly fall back down onto the seafloor.

Whilst Melinda can hold her breath underwater for longer than most, thanks to a semester of “holding up through torture”, she has no intention of alarming any civilians, criminal or otherwise to that detail. She resurfaces after only ninety seven seconds, floating around for a moment before diving back in.

It only takes thirty three seconds this time before she's breaking through the surface once more, thrashing in mild surprise at the pair of arms that are now wrapped tightly around her waist. They loosen a little as she turns, and she smacks Phil on the chest, eyes widening in surprise when she takes a look at his bare upper body.

This is the other physical change that she hadn't been able to identify when she first saw him last week. Visually it's subtle, but now that she's pressed against him with little else between them, she can _feel_ the difference.

She doesn't comment on it.

“I could have drowned!” she accuses, shoving his shoulders lightly and gasping in surprise when he pulls her even closer to him.

“I spent one summer working as a lifeguard. I would have given you mouth to mouth.”

He laughs as he speaks, throwing his head back, and she cannot tell if his words were a part of his cover, or a genuine glimpse into his past, before S.H.I.E.L.D. She wonders for a moment, before his laughter ends and they're back to floating in the water together, face to face.

Melinda knows that their topic of conversation doesn't matter either way, as long as neither of them say anything visibly incriminating, given her suspicions that at least one of Fernandez’s associates can lipread, even from a distance. They end up whispering against each other’s lips, or him against her neck, using their bodies to conceal their plans.

Later, when she places her hands on his forearms, it is not just to steady herself. The muscles beneath her fingers are firm, and she gently increases her pressure, taking liberties whilst she is still able. They may have their boundaries but the thrill of toeing that line from time to time without the consequences impacting their relationship is most definitely worth it.

She looks around her now and she’s surrounded by shades of blue. The ocean, the sky, but their beauty is easily overshadowed by what she sees when she gazes into his eyes.

It's why she looks away, so that she does not lose herself within them.

 

* * *

 

There’s not much Melinda loathes more than being forced to sit back and do nothing.

Whilst the rest of her team is out there taking down Fernández and his operations, she's sequestered away in a safe house, just waiting for it all to be over. She understands that her involvement in the mission is over, but hates the thought of sitting idly by whilst the others are in the face of danger. Agent Thorne had stressed the fact that she would only be a hindrance to the specialists and field agents, for she had not partaken in any proper training during her time undercover.

As much as she had wanted to demonstrate just how capable she still was, she made the choice to stand back in that moment and not challenge his authority any further. Instead she’d made her way into the storage room and had begun to disassemble and reassemble all the weapons within, just needing something to occupy her hands until the team got back.

She ends up moving into one of the bedrooms, after the urge to just grab one of the guns and shoot at something increases.

The wait is long and tiring, and she doesn't even realise that she's drifted off, until there's a gentle hand on her shoulder, drawing her back to consciousness.

Phil.

He looks a little worse for wear; a cut on his forehead and a couple of scrapes here and there, but it appears that his suit took most of the damage. She pushes herself off the ground before he can give her a hand, and wraps an arm around him, hoping that her actions speak louder than words.

_I'm relieved that you're safe._

She can hear several of the other agents moving around outside, and she moves to close the door, locking it so that they will not be disturbed. Phil looks confused as she steps back into his space, but now that the mission is over, she sees no reason to keep the rouse going.

“I have something to confess,” she whispers, cupping his jaw with one hand, and she can feel it beneath her palm as he swallows, nervous for whatever she may be about to say. He stays still for a moment, before nodding, and she takes a deep breath before telling him the secret she’s been hiding.

“The moustache was a prank.”

She sees the way his mouth drops open in shock, how his shoulders slump and can think of a handful of words describe how he looks in this moment.

Disappointed.

Crestfallen.

Disheartened.

Entirely exaggerated.

“You knew!” she accuses, poking him in the chest with one finger, with enough force to send him stumbling backwards a few steps.

“You tricked me into growing a hairy caterpillar under my nose,” he retorts, and it only takes two seconds for them to burst into laughter. They're both breathless when they manage to regain composure, and she shakes her head.

“How'd you realise?”

He snorts.

“I kind of figured something was off considering Clint hasn't exactly been able to keep it together. He has a laughing fit every time he sees me.”

It seems that she’s underestimated Phil’s abilities this time.

“How about I help you get rid of it, considering it is, well, it is kind of my fault,” she suggests, and though he seems surprised at the offer, he manages a small nod. She instructs him to get rid of the unsalvageable suit, and moves into the bathroom, heading straight for the medicine cabinet.

By the time she's retrieved the supplies she’ll need, he's making his way inside, having removed his tattered up suit jacket and dress shirt. He stands awkwardly by the door, until she hops up to sit on the counter and motions for him to come closer.

It annoys her a little that she's only just barely higher up than him, even sitting on an elevated surface, but she pushes the thought aside to concentrate on not accidentally cutting his throat open with her improvised razor. It's a knife, a really sharp one, and he swallows nervously as he sees it laid out on the surface beside her.

Melinda frowns as she smears the shaving cream over the lower half of his face, figuring that she might as well get rid of the five o'clock shadow that’s beginning to form while she's at it. She's relieved they have the stuff, and figures the replenishment teams haven't yet restocked the disposable razors. Her fingers hold his chin in place, and she spends a moment just scrutinising his face before she begins.

She almost slices his cheek open on the first pass when he jerks at her touch.

“Stay still.”

He moves forward a little, settling his hands onto the countertop on either side of her, tilting his face upwards to allow her a better angle, and she’s suddenly very aware of their proximity to one another. She ends up taking in a deep breath, exhaling shallowly, before she continues.

The process is slow, methodical, and meticulous.

His face is bare like she’s so used to by the time she's finished, and when he tries to move away to wash the remnants of the cream off, she stops him with one leg, pressing her heel into the back of his thigh. He freezes in place as she leans to one side, thoroughly dampening a clean washcloth and wringing the water out before bringing it to his cheek.

Her touch is soft and gentle as she wipes his skin clean, taking extra care when she passes over the cut on his eyebrow. It's small and thankfully shallow; will need little more than antiseptic and a bandage.

She tends to it as well.

When she's done, smoothing over the band-aid’s edge a final time, she removes her hands and edges backwards, offering him a small smile and gesturing for him to inspect himself in the mirror.

She expects him to move away.

He surprises her once again.

His hands move from beside her, to around her, as he wraps her up in his embrace, his chin pressing into her shoulder. It almost feels too intimate like this, because they're friends, partners, and the mission is already over, but she reciprocates anyway.

She hugs him back, because it's what she wants.

They're in a safe house bathroom on foreign soil, no longer agents, but two friends, sharing in a touch of comfort that people like them so rarely have.

“Thank you,” he whispers against her hair, and she wants to shake her head no, to tell him that she's the one who is thankful to have him in her life.

But there are things that are better left unsaid.

She knows not if this is one of them, but holds him a little tighter, wondering if it's just her imagination when she feels his rapid pulse against her cheek.

There's no other explanation for it.


	14. XIV

In April of 1998, after spending over three months on an operation in Siberia with Garrett for company, Phil is ready to shoot someone to get it all over and done with. He honestly wasn't aware that he had a breaking point, but begins entertaining drastic measures to end this assignment. Most of them will likely result in suspension and way too much paperwork, which he’s ashamed to say in the moment is more of a deterrent than his own morals.

They were going to have to take out their target eventually, and whilst murdering people isn't exactly high on his list of favourite things to do, he knows that they won't be able to take the guy in alive.

Perhaps fortune really is smiling down on them, because Phil doesn't end up having to relay orders of “shoot to kill”. No, their target ends up choking to death when his evening meal goes down the wrong pipe, and no one in his vicinity has the skill nor inclination to perform the heimlich.

In the blink of an eye their team is sent back to the States, and Phil doesn't have much of an opportunity to catch a break before he's being shipped out again.

Back to Japan.

This time, with Melinda by his side.

He's still a little disappointed that she missed out on that mission he so meticulously planned, four years ago, but thinks that it's better late than never. That and he’s hoping there will be many more operations for the two of them, together, in the future. In his mind they're already sort of partners, having spent so much time as a team already, in the seven years they have worked as fully fledged SHIELD agents.

A single document from administration could make it official, but he's not confident that it'll happen any time soon.

They'll likely have to undergo countless evaluations to confirm their compatibility, be monitored on missions and prove that they're a “suitable match.” It doesn't help that their operations together haven't exactly been smooth. At the end of the day, they get the job done, but he’s pretty sure it would be preferable if they had less mishaps and close calls. There's also the matter of whether or not Melinda would be open to such an arrangement; he can hold his own out on the field, but he's no specialist.

A partnership also comes with an enforced “no fraternisation” rule, and that perhaps, is the central reason he’s reluctant to bring up the matter with Melinda. It's not that he thinks there's any hope of anything ever happening between them, or that she would ever be interested, but the thought of confirming his suspicions leaves a bitter taste in his mouth and a heavy weight upon his shoulders. Perhaps there is a part of his mind that can't be erased, where he thinks they could have something more than what exists between them now, but he's too cautious to allow himself the liberty of entertaining such thoughts.

He's the analyst between the two of them, but there's no doubt that she can read him like an open book. It's far easier to keep his secrets hidden far beneath the surface, where there's no chance of her uncovering them.

The more realistic side of him knows that the best option for both of their careers is to enter into a partnership. They could become SHIELD legends. It's a premature thought, but Melinda is incredible, and most of the agents with similar backgrounds in training don't even compare. Even at the Academy her talents had been unrivalled; once in awhile someone would get one up on her, but those occurrences were few and far between.

She's pinned him on his back more times than he can remember.

Not that he's much effort for her to take down, unlike many of the opponents he's known her to have faced in the past. She's fast, strong, and methodical when it comes to combat, facing each fight with the same precision he has towards every mission he takes part in.

He has limitless patience where she does not, and she possesses the physical skills for almost any situation they could encounter. There is no doubt in his mind that they have an incredible amount of potential as a pair, and despite his personal reservations on the matter, he is inclined to at least try and head down this road.

It's not likely they'll ever be more than friends, more than colleagues, and a partnership is as close as he’ll get to ensuring her presence in his life. It will mean constantly working together, knowing one another better than others could ever hope to.

Not so long ago, he feared her constant presence, knowing how it could affect his behaviour, but he feels as though his feelings have reached a place where there is no room to go any further.

He wouldn't hesitate before taking a bullet for her.

It's definitely a thought he's not planning to share, especially not if he wants to maintain their friendship, or hope to have SHIELD approve of a partnership between them. They would not be pleased to know how willing he is to put himself in harm’s way if it means protecting her.

The mission always comes before the man.

It's been drilled into them since their earliest days of training, even before the Academy. Fury had repeated the phrase countless times, along with another of his speeches, about how one man could accomplish anything as soon as he realises he's a part of something bigger.

He still believes in them, as he believes in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s ideals.

But if he had to choose between these beliefs and the life of his closest friend, well, he’s already made that choice.

 

* * *

 

As undercover missions go, this one is pretty straight-forward, and requires little acting on her behalf.

She's playing the quiet, closed off, Japanese heiress, and Phil is her bumbling American husband. Their marriage was arranged of course, to cement a merger between their parents’ companies, and as a result, they're not expected to be anything but civil with one another.

It's easier this way.

The stiff politeness, the awkward way he holds his arm out for her and the fact that they have to mimic having communication issues due to a language barrier do a lot to remind her that they're on a mission. It makes keeping their boundaries in place so much easier. They're both professional, level headed, but working with him always has her so conflicted.

He's the best teammate one could ask for, and they mesh well together. It's only her personal _issues_ that have her constantly on edge whenever they're around each other. She thinks it's actually a lot worse now when they spend time together outside of work, because it's all too easy to let him wrap an arm around her shoulder when they're walking around, or steal bites of his food just to provoke a reaction. Phil always scrunches up his face in annoyance, but never stops her from doing what she wants.

She can list all the reasons why keeping her guard up is a good idea, why they decided to have professional boundaries in place from the beginning, but the thoughts always seem to fade away when they're together. Sometimes he’ll tell a stupid joke and get this look in his eye and the lines will blur a little. But then he’ll say something, do something, and it will remind her why things could never truly work out.

It's sad, but it's reality, and it's what she has to deal with in exchange for their friendship.

Phil is worth it though, even if he’s a bit of a dork at times.

Such a time happens to be right now, standing by the dresser and picking out cufflinks to match the rest of his outfit. She watches him out of the corner of her eye whilst getting ready herself, and tries her best to conceal a smile at his actions. Of all the things in the world he could be concerned over, it’s his fashion choices, and not the highly secured, underground storage facility that they’ll have to infiltrate later in the evening.

It honestly doesn’t surprise her.

His tendency to over prepare for all situations is both admirable and amusing, and she knows first hand how much work he’s already undertaken for this mission. He’s always trying to anticipate all possible outcomes before they occur; constantly has contingency plans in place should things take a turn for the worse. It’s one of the many areas where they differ. She prefers not to overthink things, to handle things as they come up. It’s not that she’s not concerned that things could go wrong, but if they do, she’s certain she can handle it.

After all, that is her job.

She's also not convinced this mission is difficult compared to the others she has carried out in this year alone. There was an operation in Johannesburg where she and another specialist spent forty-eight hours hidden in a secret compartment of a delivery truck in order to ascertain its final destination. By the time they had arrived at the unknown location, the pair of them had depleted the paltry supplies they had on their persons, both close to dehydration. She also recalls one evening, perched on the rooftop of a building with her scope trained on a target. The temperature was several degrees below freezing and she hadn't gotten to pull the trigger until the sun began to rise. At that point both her fingers and the rifle were frozen, and she's still surprised she managed a clean shot and survived with all appendages intact.

Thinking back to such experiences convinces her that things will be a breeze tonight.

They'll make their way in, grab the item, and make a hasty retreat before their treachery can be discovered. It's entirely possible they could be back home within thirty-six hours.

She feels pretty optimistic about their chances.

Phil however, does not agree.

He's nervous. She notices it straight away, despite his skill at concealing his emotions. He still appears to have so much more confidence than he once did, on earlier missions, but there are things that betray his true feelings. The way his hands aren't entirely steady when he fastens his tie, his neck and shoulders stiff, the even breaths he takes to maintain a steady heart rate.

Melinda knows that her ability to comfort others leaves a lot to be desired, but she's been trying. It's easier to muster up the effort for some than others, and with Phil, she's always willing to try and push her own boundaries.

She moves to stand behind him, silent as ever, and he jolts when she rests a hand on his forearm, her fingers pressing gently into the fabric of his suit. He's definitely worried, and she knows it's because he cares so incredibly much about everything that they do. His nerves seem to be making his entire body shiver, even though he maintains a stoic expression when turning in her direction. She tries to reassure him with a smile, but it doesn't have the intended effect, though she suspects that might be because her expression is entirely forced.

“It'll be a piece of cake.”

Despite maintaining a lighter tone, she speaks with the utmost conviction, because she truly believes in their abilities. She trusts in Phil completely, in this mission that he's planned, and she knows their superiors do too, because there is no backup, no extraction team in place should they fail. Her words are said to ease the tension in the room, a little humour to lighten the mood, and she smiles when Phil’s expression shifts from slightly worried to a mocking despair.

“Don't say that. You'll jinx us!”

She rolls her eyes at him, releasing his arm, only to give it a hard flick with her fingers. He yelps in pain, leaping backwards and away from her, frowning.

“You are such a child,” she tells him, scoffing.

“Touché.”

He smiles, and she does too, and then they're engaging in a friendly scuffle that ends with him pinned to the ground, her knee resting on his rib cage. They're careful enough to wrestle around without doing damage to their clothing or surroundings, and the release of nervous energy is just enough to have Phil lower his guard and relax.

She laughs from her position above him and moves to stand before offering him a helping hand. He eyes her a little suspiciously before accepting, a look of relief passing over his features when she doesn't spring any surprise attacks upon him. She straightens her dress, smoothing down the fabric that had bunched around her hips during a particularly aggressive but non-lethal kick in his direction, and then reaches out to help Phil with his suit. By the end of all their primping, they have not one hair out of place; a picture perfect pair.

“We’ve got this one in the bag,” she reassures him once more before they depart, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. The look in his eyes tells her that he’s still cautious, wary of all the things that could possibly go wrong. She's not sure there's anything she can do to eliminate his fear entirely, but he's far calmer now than before.

It's probably a good thing that he's hyper aware of his surroundings; it can assist them in the middle of a fight. She doesn't worry that it could cause unnecessary distractions and hinder them throughout the course of the mission because she knows Phil and she knows he has his head in the game.

They'll be in and out in a flash.

 

* * *

 

The charity ball is in full swing when they duck out, slipping away and into the shadows just as Phil had detailed in his plan. They could easily avoid the guards, moving down to the basement area without being detected, but Melinda takes them down anyway, injecting them with a potent sleeping drug.

The scientists in research and development had promised the stuff would last a minimum of eight hours, more than enough time for them to complete their mission.

All in all, things are going pretty smoothly, that is, until they hit the laser grids. Phil doesn't even try to hide his groan when they come into view, but Melinda reacts as she usually does to these situations, rolling her eyes at his antics.

“It's like a movie cliché,” he complains, even as she begins to make her way through, twisting her body to avoid hitting the red beams and blowing their cover. She's barely to the other side when Phil follows, far less gracefully but undetected all the same.

When they are both in the clear, he straightens up, rubbing at the strained muscles in his back and wondering if he should leave the acrobatics to her.

“Too much for you, old man?”

He can hear Melinda’s laughter as she darts ahead, and he grumbles an incoherent retort before racing to catch up to her. She slaps his hand away when he pokes her in the side, and he thinks the moment perfectly captures the relationship that has formed between them in the years they have spent together.

Carefree, but respectful.

And entirely irreplaceable.

There's no one else in the world  he trusts as much as her, no one that he has more faith in. They're always looking out for each other, but he finds that out in the field, Melinda protects him more than he could ever hope to reciprocate.

Her senses are sharper.

She's faster.

His point is proven not five seconds after these thoughts enter into his mind, when they cross into an older basement area and all his hopes of a quick and painless mission fly out the window. They had accounted for an area like this on their plans, knew of its existence and assessed the probable danger level. Phil himself had marked it off with a low threat level, given that this area was left empty in the security blueprints.

He should have known better.

They’re three steps in when he registers the unmistakable click of a trap being triggered. For a moment, everything is still and it feels like time has almost come to a stop, the hairs on the back of his neck slowly rising. It ends when Melinda shouts his name, and then he's being thrown to the ground, crashing hard against the old wooden floor.

The air is knocked right out of his lungs, and while he’s struggling to regain his breath, he hears the sound of metal doors coming to a close and an anguished cry of pain.

_Melinda._

He turns in her direction, but is helpless to do anything as he watches her stumble backwards before collapsing, her hands clutching desperately at her side. Blood is seeping out between her fingers, and for a moment, he completely blanks.

His best friend is lying there, seriously injured, and all he can do is sit and watch, panicked at the sight of her in such agony. There’s a crease in her brow and her eyes are screwed shut even as she tried valiantly to apply pressure to her own wound, which he realises is one of many. She lets out a groan of pain and he wants to move to help her, but he’s rooted to the spot, vision blurring at the edges, palms clammy and his entire body shaking with fear.

It's far from the first time a teammate has taken a hit, and he’s usually calm in those situations, with the knowledge that panicking is entirely unproductive. But it's different here, now, seeing her like this. He shuts his eyes for just a moment, and the images of those who have been injured on his watch flash past in the darkness. The memories come flooding back, horrific realisations of the deaths he’s witnessed in person, and he struggles to breathe, gasping for air as he breaks free from his own mind.

Melinda could die.

She could lie there, six feet away and bleed out into foreign soil while he watches on like an idiot, helpless to save her even after she did the same for him. It's his fault she's hurt; she had done it to protect _him._

The thoughts only lead to a series of even darker scenes playing out in his mind; horror, guilt, regret and another feeling, like his heart is constricting and no longer pumping blood through his veins. He knows what this is, having had such attacks in the past, more frequently after missions that went south. It's been so long since he last experienced this awful feeling, like the room is closing in around him, anxiety hitting him like a speeding car with no control of its brakes.

He has no idea how long it lasts, completely losing track of time as he tries to regain control of his own body. It doesn't happen until a faint whisper somehow breaks through the invisible barriers that have formed around him.

_“Phil…”_

The darkness is immediately shattered, and it's almost as if he can see the shards of it falling away as his vision clears and he's left staring at Melinda, deathly pale and reaching towards him with her own bloody hand.

He rushes to her side, his heart racing, adrenaline rushing through his veins as he tries to take control of the situation. The major wound is a horrible slash in her side, but there are similar injuries across her upper arm and thigh as well. It takes only a quick glance at around the room for him to determine the cause.

Throwing stars.

Or a variant of some kind, planted within the walls, intended as a trap for any unsuspecting trespassers. From what he remembers, they're not designed to kill, but rather distract one’s opponent, though he thinks whoever designed this structure has repurposed them somehow in order to maim intruders.

Melinda had been hit, badly.

There is no backup, no extraction team, the only true contingency they have in place is Agent Casey who will call for help only if they don't make contact by tomorrow afternoon. Phil knows the chances of Melinda surviving till then, with no medical attention and the imminent threat of their captors bursting in at any time, are slim to none.

No one is here to help.

Her only chance of making it through this depends on him alone.

Just like that the dread returns, an impossible weight upon his shoulders, but there's a difference this time. He refuses to allow the fear to conquer him, and it's all for her. There are no other options; he has to be the one to save her.

 

* * *

 

Everything hurts.

There's searing pain throughout several areas of her body, but there is not one part of her now that isn't suffering. Some of her wounds are superficial, slashes where the blades just grazed her skin; others remnants of her earlier fight with guards who just didn't know when to quit. The most pressing matter in this moment are the gashes in along her midsection and thigh where the sharp metal had gone straight through.

She's lucky they didn't hit an artery but knows there’s little she can do herself. Her hands are shaky and it's so hard to put pressure against her wounds to help slow the bleeding and Phil is just watching her, completely terrified. His eyes are glassy and she knows he's in shock, wonders if he hit his head when she shoved him out of the way.

If he has a concussion, she’s pretty much done for.

Whilst she has always imagined going out in the field one day and not making it home, she had thought her death would be a little more spectacular. Going down after fighting an army of evil henchmen, falling in the heat of the battle, not succumbing to injuries thanks to well concealed traps on a simple retrieval operation. It's not as though she spends her days thinking about dying, but it's always been a subject of great turmoil for her.

Sometimes entertaining ideas about a heroic death are all she has to lighten the difficult topic.

There aren't a great number of things in the world she fears, but her own death scares her. She's afraid to die, afraid of her world ending and not knowing where she’ll end up. It's buried deep inside her at the best of times, and forces its way to the surface during the worst.

She doesn't want to die.

It's with this thought that she musters up the power to speak, even though the slightest movement is agonising. She calls out his name and almost cries out in relief when he responds, moving to her side almost immediately.

His gaze meets hers, and she sees the determination within him, but also a sense of admiration and guilt. She doesn't want him to be in turmoil over the fact that she had put herself in harm’s way to keep him out of it. It's stupid to let these personal relationships affect them in the field, but she’d be damned if she stood there and watched as her closest friend got turned into a pincushion.

Even now, with all this pain and uncertainty, just seeing his reassuring smile as he begins to assess her injuries, is enough for her to figure out one thing for certain.

She would do it again in a heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

It takes Phil all of thirty seconds to realise how out of his depth he truly is.

Whilst all agents who planned on going out into the field were required to pass a first aid certification to increase chances of life preservation should the matter arise, this really isn't a circumstance that can be easily fixed with his very limited medical knowledge. He's patched people up before, but never in a situation where inaction would lead to them bleeding out and dying.

It’s only the basics he does well, and even from a single glance he knows that she’ll need far more than that to survive, and that there isn't a moment to lose.

He strips off his suit jacket first, balling it up and wedging it beneath her head and the ground, before tugging off his tie as well. It's not the same as gauze or bandages, but there’s enough length to bind at least her arm or leg. The cuts there are bleeding, but they're not serious enough to warrant too much panic.

It’s the wound in her side he’s most concerned about.

The metal had torn right through her gown, her blood seeping out and staining the lavender fabric. There’s little he can do to examine the injury without getting rid of the material covering it up, and he hesitates, his hands hovering over hers.

“Just cut the damn dress away,” Melinda seethes, and hearing her annoyance is more than enough to reassure him that she's still doing okay for now. There’s a pocket knife concealed in his shoe, and he removes it from its hiding spot, quickly flipping the blade out. She shifts her hands from the site of her injury, and he slashes through the fabric as fast as he is able to, careful to not cause any further damage. Without the pressure of her hands, he can see the severity of the bleeding, the deep gash that most definitely needs stitches to close up. He breathes a sigh of relief upon noting the size of the injury, far smaller than he feared, given the amount of blood. It does little to really improve the situation, given that they have no access to even the most basic of first aid equipment, and he knows that he has no choice but to improvise.

Constant pressure is only enough to slow the blood loss, and not stem it all together, and he fears that the best option at this point is to cauterise. He's never performed such a procedure, nor has he experienced it being carried out on himself, but from what he’s heard, the pain is akin to torture. The last thing he wants to do is to increase her suffering, but he sees no other quick alternatives. They don't have drugs to clot her blood or alleviate the pain, no needles to suture her wounds closed, nothing to prevent an infection from developing, not even gauze to bandage her up.

He wants to throw his head back and scream out his frustrations, but knows it won't help the situation.

They’ll just have to make do with the little that they have on hand. It doesn't help that as operatives, they generally only carry concealed weapons during missions. Phil cannot see any situation wherein the pistol strapped to Melinda’s thigh will lead to a miraculous recovery. They're lucky to have all the gadgets and gizmos in his pocket knife, and he knows that between detachable lighter and blade, a cauterisation is possible. It'll be messy and he has no idea what he’s doing, but he doesn't have a choice.

“What’s the verdict?”

Melinda’s voice is softer, even by her standards, and he looks up from his hands to see the little smile on her face. He sees through it immediately, the calm facade that exists to conceal her own panic, and to soothe his nerves. For some reason, it makes the situation all the more painful for him, knowing that even when she’s the one who is hurt, she’s still trying to protect him.

“We have to stop the bleeding.”

He looks directly into her eyes as he speaks, and sees the understanding flash across her features. There’s no fear, only acceptance, and it’s one of a thousand reasons why Melinda is the most incredible person he knows. She nods, ever so slowly, and he knows that she’s putting her life in his hands.

His shaky, unpracticed hands.

“You should probably get started before I bleed out.”

He shoots a half-hearted glare in her direction, shaking his head to show his disapproval in regards to her attempt at humour.

“It’ll hurt.”

What a simple phrase to describe the excruciating pain that will stem from hot metal being used to temporarily close up her wound and stop all the bleeding. It won't end there either, only a temporary solution to keep her alive until they can figure out a way to bust out without being killed by a group of disgruntled guards. He can see the fear in her eyes, despite her best efforts in trying to hide it from him, and it frustrates him to no end that even now she's not comfortable with being herself in his presence.

“I'll be fine. Just give me something to bite down on.”

Phil doesn't think twice before grabbing his discarded tie, balling it up and holding it up to her mouth. She closes her teeth around it, breathing shallowly through her nose, and he prepares himself for the hardest task he's ever undertaken. The blade is difficult to heat with a small flame, and he continually grows more terrified as each second passes, worrying that he’ll be too late, or do it wrong and inevitably cause more damage than there already is. He knows that the faster it happens, the less painful it is for the both of them.

The muffled scream she releases when the edge of the metal brushes against her bloody gash sends a chill running down his spine. He tears the blade away, dropping it with a clatter to the ground beside him, shaking his head.

“I can't do this.”

It's all too much, being the one to cause her so much pain, and he's not strong enough to do it.

There has to be another way.

He cannot bring himself to make eye contact with her as the thoughts race in his mind, staring at his own hands, covered in her blood. There's no way to know if constant pressure will stop the bleeding, but it's far less terrifying than hearing her cry out again. He strips his shirt off without a second thought, two buttons popping off in his rush, and begins tearing strips from the fabric to bind her other injuries.

She groans when he presses against her wound, but it's low and far less pained than before. The blood isn't quite seeping through the cracks of his fingers anymore, but he cannot measure how much time passes before he dares lift his hand to check.

He finds himself able to breathe again when he replaces his hand with a strip of fabric and it doesn't immediately soak through. Melinda is watching him, an unidentifiable expression on her face, and he reaches up, pulling the tie from her mouth.

“Can you apply pressure while I bandage your arm and leg?”

She rolls her eyes in response, before moving to clamp her hands down on her side. He works quickly but carefully, wrapping the torn strips from his shirt around her upper thigh and arm, making sure to only use as much fabric as is needed. It's more than likely he’ll have to change the makeshift bandages later on, and he does not want to run out.

He ends up ripping his undershirt too, tying a few strips together in an attempt to cover up her main injury. The bleeding has slowed down, but he anticipates having to keep the pressure on it until they can get out of here. There's a small pool of blood beneath her, and he hates the thought of moving her, but they could probably shift to a spot where she's not lying in it.

“Can you move?” he asks, even though he already anticipates her reaction. Sure enough, she snorts in response, and allows him to tuck an arm under her and lift her into a sitting position, all while keeping constant pressure over her wound. She’s breathing heavily, making an effort to not cry out as he winds the makeshift bandage around her waist, securing it tightly in place. He supports her with one arm, reaching for his discarded jacket with the other, and draping it over her bare shoulders. It will do little to protect her from the chill, but a small amount of comfort is better than nothing at all.

He is reluctant for her to move any further than she already has, the pair of them having shuffled far enough away from the puddle of blood she had been lying in before. What remains of her dress is soaked, but wet fabric is better than their captors walking in on her half-naked. Her skin is cool to the touch, and he can feel her actively trying to repress shivers beside him.

There's nothing around them that's a viable heat source to keep her condition from worsening.

Nothing, but him.

It certainly isn't the first time they've stayed in close proximity to one another for the sake of keeping warm, but he still feels a little awkward initiating contact, especially when he’s essentially naked from the waist up. His own reservations about the matter come second to ensuring Melinda’s safety, and right now his chief concern is providing her what comfort he can.

He sits back against the wall, directly behind her, and assists in manoeuvring her body until she is leaning back against him. Her head tips back against his shoulder, and he loops an arm around her waist, keeping his palm pressed against the site of her injury, maintaining a gentle pressure. When he feels her craning her neck to look up at him, he turns to face her, jolting his head back a little upon the realisation that there is barely any space between them.

“If I had known getting injured in the field meant you losing your shirt, I might have let it happen a lot sooner.”

She speaks as if making a joke, and he sincerely hopes that is the case, because he has no idea how to react otherwise. Her choice to demonstrate her sense of humour is poorly timed, seeing as they're not even close to being out of the woods, not with the captivity and her injury. He allows a quiet burst of laughter to break through, to demonstrate his appreciation towards her attempts at lightening the mood and making their confinement less miserable.

“Very funny,” he mumbles afterwards, trying his best to sound as though he is equally amused as she. Emotionally, they're nowhere near as close as he hopes they one day could be, but physically there is not even a hair’s breadth of air between them, and he sits still, trying to conceal a reaction as she suddenly turns away from him, her cheek resting against his bare shoulder, gaze now directed towards the floor. He cannot glimpse the expression upon her face due to the positions they are in, but he imagines there wouldn't be much for him to decipher, for her ability to conceal her emotions comes close to surpassing his skill with seeing through people’s defenses.

Yet even without seeing to know for sure, he's almost entirely convinced that she's displeased, maybe even unsettled, by his reaction.

It all makes very little sense to him.

 

* * *

 

Melinda feels as though she is on fire.

Whilst logically she realises that her body temperature is lower than normal, the immense level of heat within the very depths of her is almost overwhelming. Parts of her body burn, searing pain that does not lessen, even when she tries to empty her mind or search for other things to focus on.

There's also the heat that surrounds her.

A familiar warmth, almost cradling her as if trying to shield her from the bad things in the world. By all means, this heat should be gentle, subdued, lingering in the background.

It does not feel that way.

Here and now, Phil is her protector, her only source of comfort and she's grateful for his presence, more than she is capable of expressing. When she allows her eyes to fall shut for just a moment, she can pretend that this is real. That they're so close out of desire to be near one another, and not because his need to save others and improve _their_ lives is stronger than his will to find his own happiness. She can feel his racing heartbeat against her back, adrenaline and fear coursing through his veins, not anticipation or excitement. His chin rests upon the back of her head, and she knows it's not out of fondness but rather convenience.

Each time she feels his body shiver, she feels bad that he lost his clothes for her sake.

She has no idea what she’s thinking when she makes a remark about his state of undress, and regrets the words almost immediately after they leave her mouth. It's what annoys her most about this weakened state; when she's around those that she feels safe enough with to lower her guard, she always says the things on her mind that she wouldn't in any other situation.

Subjecting Phil to unsolicited flirtation is definitely unprofessional and inappropriate, no matter the circumstances.

It's why she's so grateful when he misinterprets her statement as humour. His reaction brings her a different kind of pain, adding to the metaphorical ache in her heart that only grows as time goes by. Her thoughts are foolish really, given that things between them haven't exactly changed; they're friends, as they have been since day one.

She wonders why it’s so much more difficult to keep her feelings in check now, considering those haven’t changed either.

 

* * *

 

They've been sitting there for a while, a couple of hours at the least, when Phil decides that it's in his best interest to explore the room for any chances of an escape. No one has come for them, friendly or otherwise, and he's not planning to just stay and do nothing until the choice to act is taken from him.

Before making any other moves, his first course of action is to check Melinda’s bandages and reassess the severity of her injury. The bleeding has slowed to a point where he's no longer afraid that the wound is life threatening, and she's characteristically silent when he swaps out the soaked cloth for a clean one. He helps her sit up against the wall, before cautiously beginning his exploration of the room.

There's the fear that he’ll accidentally set off another trap, but he figures with the way he had been moving around before, trying to save Melinda, any hidden triggers would have already been activated. Still, he makes his way around with caution, taking the utmost care with each and every step, hands gingerly reaching out to map the walls. It doesn't take him long to find the grooves where the weapons that had caused Melinda’s injury were previously stored.

He hates himself for not being more observant, for not noticing earlier, before she had been forced to throw herself into the line of fire to save his life.

She's sitting there now, pretty much motionless, and he realises upon his gaze lingering, that her eyes are shut and her breathing shallow and uneven. He's back at her side in an instant, reaching for her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.

Her skin is cold to the touch, even more so than before.

“May.”

He calls her name softly at first, and then louder and more urgently when there’s no response. She’s still breathing, but that’s of very little comfort when he cannot seem to rouse her. He keeps his touch gentle, not knowing how many internal injuries she may have in addition to the very obvious external ones, but he's too afraid to leave her like this.

She needs to stay awake.

“Melinda.”

This time it's a whisper, and even though the way he says her name is barely audible, even to him, it feels strange. It isn't something that he's accustomed to hearing himself say, at least not out loud. Calling someone in their line of work by their surname or codename is standard, even when not on the job, but first names imply a degree of intimacy that he isn't sure he’s obtained with anyone. So as often as he refers to her as Melinda in his mind, he keeps himself in check when it comes to actually speaking.

He draws in a shaky breath when her eyelids flutter open, and her vision is unfocused for a moment before she's staring into his eyes.

“Phil?”

She blinks twice, before squeezing his hand back and he quickly moves to resume their previous position, holding her in his arms and keeping her warm. He doesn't object when she presses her face against his neck, leeching the heat from his body, but he doesn't allow her to fall asleep again, not knowing what the consequences of her being unconscious might be.

He talks to her, random unrelated anecdotes that make no real sense, a mix of fairy tales, childhood memories and stories of classified missions with key details withheld. It's stupid, his habit of talking incessantly to fill the silence, and it's never truly been useful until today. Honestly, he has no idea if he’s just annoying her into staying conscious, but he’s happy it’s working. She doesn't respond verbally to anything he says, but that’s not abnormal for her, but he catches her smiling a time or two.

The curve of her lips, the way the corners are upturned slightly, and the soft expression in her eyes; all the things that enable him to believe that they’ll make it out of here, for the most part, unscathed.

Because he cannot imagine the world continuing to turn, the sun rising and falling, if she isn't right there by his side.

Phil doesn’t voice his thoughts out loud though, and not only because he’s afraid to admit such things to himself. He also fears any potential reactions Melinda might have in response to said thoughts. The best case scenario is her laughing it off and calling him dramatic, and the worst case scenario, well, he has no intention of letting his mind wander in that direction.

 

* * *

 

After eighteen hours of captivity, they make it out alive.

It's not the longest that Phil’s ever been trapped by the enemy, though he’s certainly never gone that much time without someone coming in to interrogate him.

Agent Morrissey brings a small team to extract them, and all three specialists express their annoyance when he refuses to leave Melinda in their care, carrying her out in his own arms. Their escape is clandestine, and before he knows it, they're on a jet back home.

The four hours he spent in the Tokyo SHIELD medical facility, waiting for the doctors to patch Melinda up, are only a haze of foggy memories now. All he recalls is his shaky hands, sweaty palms, and nervous pacing, needing to know he hadn't worsened her injury with his lack of abilities.

She’s fine, mostly.

The doctor had informed him of her recovery time, coupled with a recommendation that she be out of the field for a bare minimum of six weeks but a go ahead to return to desk work after her stitches are removed.

Phil just knows that she’ll absolutely _hate_ that. Specialists and paperwork never did make for a great combination, and if there’s anyone who hates being chained to a desk, it's Melinda. He's pretty sure one of the motivating factors behind her preference for incapacitating targets rather than taking them out is so that she can avoid the paperwork.

That and the mandated therapy sessions.

He’s already made an appointment with his own psychiatrist to discuss the psychological repercussions as a result of watching his teammate and friend almost bleed out. Even though she’s entirely stable now, fast asleep and drugged up, strapped to a gurney on the other side of the jet, he has a feeling he won't be seeing her as such in his nightmares.

His point is proven after he awakens in a cold sweat, not long before they're due to touch down, and it's only when his gaze falls upon her once more that he’s reassured of her well-being.

 

* * *

 

Melinda’s apartment is exactly as he remembered, down to the empty fridge and barren pantry. It takes him exactly thirty seconds to go through her entire kitchen, rifling through shelves and drawers and finding a whole lot of nothing. He figures that he’ll need to go grab some groceries if he wants to get any cooking done.

Actually, he’ll have to go grab groceries because he _needs_ to cook. It's easy enough for him to head down the block and get take out for himself, but he’s seen the list of foods that the doctor recommended Melinda avoid. Knowing her, she’ll probably try and live off green tea and little else until she’s back on her feet.

He’s idly playing with the keys to her apartment, debating whether she can be left alone while he goes out to pick up some ingredients. She isn't due for another dosage of pain meds for at least two hours, but he doesn't want to run the risk of her waking up alone, disorientated and in pain. After a moment of further consideration, he heads into her room, stealing a pen and a scrap piece of paper from her desk before carefully sitting down beside her sleeping form. She looks so peaceful, and he can't help but smile as he reaches a hand out to feel her forehead for any sign of a fever. When he’s satisfied that she’s well, or as well as someone with a plethora of injuries can be, he begins to write out a list of possible recipes and the things required to create them.

Melinda begins to stir shortly almost two hours later, shortly before he’s finished with his task, but she doesn't stay conscious for long. He watches as a crease forms between her brows, and she blinks awake, grimace shifting into a smile when she turns to him. She mumbles something entirely incoherent, and tries to push his hands away when he holds out her meds. He stands his ground though, and ensures she swallows her pills, despite her resistance to doing so. Her eyes close after another minute or so, her breathing evening out, and he’s sure that she’s asleep, until she moves.

He tries not to startle when he feels her fingers close around his wrist, and he quickly directs his gaze to her face, but finds that she is indeed fast asleep. Or, excellent at faking it, though he sees no reason why she would do such a thing.

Her grip is like iron even though she’s unconscious, and it takes a little prying until he can make his escape, however reluctant he is to move away from her. They’ll both need to eat, and there’s no way he’s getting dinner on the table if he lingers here in her bedroom.

With one last glance in her direction, to check that her state hasn't changed in the last thirty seconds, he leaves the room, shopping list clutched tightly in his hand.

 

* * *

 

Phil spends only a day D.C. before he returns home to New York, and with much reluctance, because he’s confident that Melinda won’t keep taking her medication without him around to force her. He understands her abhorrence towards the drugs that knock her out for hours at a time, but doesn’t know how to explain to her that it’s a good thing. Clearly her body needs the rest, as much as she stubbornly resists, choosing to ignore the pain.

He leaves behind a freezer filled with painstakingly prepared homemade meals and instructions on how to reheat them, so that she’ll at least have something to consume that isn’t booze, and a note reminding her to take it easy, though he’s not sure his words will have much of an effect on her. Logically, he knows that she’s a grown woman, and can take care of herself, but it’s difficult not to worry.

Hell, it’s difficult not to think about her.

He definitely doesn’t spend his entire flight back to New York imagining what reaction she might have to the various dishes he’s left for her. Phil isn’t one to admit this often, but he thinks he may have gone a little overboard, if ringing Clint and begging him to call up Melinda’s father for the recipes to her favourite childhood dishes could be considered overboard. He’s just trying to be a good friend.

That’s all.

There’s nothing else to it, really.

Of course, Clint didn’t believe him when he said so, and if he’s being honest about it, he’s not sure he believes himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I know I don't say this often, but I always appreciate feedback and love reading comments. So if you enjoyed this chapter, please let me know. Or even if you didn't like it :)
> 
> Update: I'm not sure if I'll be writing for this fandom anymore, but I felt that I owed it to everyone who has supported me over the years to post the last chapter I wrote before I stopped. Thank you


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